


Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit

by dollsome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 106,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: The diary of Auriga Sinistra: Astronomy professor, spinster, and lunatic. (A repost of an ancient saga, plus a little extra.)
Relationships: Aurora Sinistra/Severus Snape
Comments: 73
Kudos: 51





	1. Battles with a Hygienically Ignorant Moron

**Author's Note:**

> This story -- with full respect to the deep emotional significance it holds in my heart -- is full-on deranged, folks. I wrote it when I was a teen whose life force clearly hadn't been crumbled to dust by the burdens and various physical ailments of adulthood yet, and oh my friends, you can tell. I am now about the same age that Auriga is in this story, and there's no way young me could've predicted how by the time you hit your 30s, you're simply too tired to care this much about anything.
> 
> I don't even really know how to warn for content in this story. House elf seduction? Iguana ravishings?? Smitten sixth-year students??? Liberal use of casual slut-shaming language?? Rampant Americanization of lingo??? A dude named Algernon for some reason???? SNAPE: SECRET PIANIST AND FAN OF SHAKESPEARE?????? (Which, to quote an Ann Perkins classic: “I think you just described the Phantom of the Opera.”)
> 
> I’ve thought about rewriting it over the years so that Auriga more resembles a human adult, but I’ve got so much on my writing plate all the time that it just hasn’t been possible and most likely never will be. So instead, I must honor Past Me’s creation in all its authentic, cringey glory!
> 
> Disclaimer: There are so many in-jokes here that have been lost to the ravages of time that I don't even know how to explain them anymore. Just roll with it! Also, if you’re curious about the absolutely iconic companion piece, it’s called Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron by Gedia Kacela and can still be found over on FanFiction.Net. :)
> 
> Lastly, this was written in the ancient pre-Pottermore days where you just had to make up the first names of like 80% of the Hogwarts faculty, ergo all the flying in the face of subsequently-established canon! (Aurora Sinistra? AURORA SINISTRA? So close, yet so far!)

**Saturday, August 31, 1991**

**9:30 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Just got back from the dreaded start-of-the-year staff meeting. Nothing new, besides the fact that the Philosopher's Stone is being kept here this year. A few selected teachers are performing charms and assorted obstacles to guard it. Naturally, I'm not one of them.

I'm so tragically under-appreciated.

As far as my wonderful colleagues, everyone was just like they are at the start of term every year. Pomona was annoyingly cheerful, Minerva is due to suffer one of her annual nervous breakdowns anytime now, Albus kept offering everyone bizarre Muggle sweets (sherbet lemons aren't bad, actually), the new Defense Against The Dark Arts professor stammered through a couple of nervous sentences (I doubt he'll hold up a week with the Weasley twins in his class), and Sybill Trelawney kept predicting my untimely demise.

She's been doing this since my third year at Hogwarts.

It's getting old.

I swear, if the old bat tells me that I will suffer a long and painful death one more time, I'll Avada Kedavra myself.

And that way it won't be long and painful, just to spite her.

Heh heh.

Oh yes. And Severus Snape was a complete and total bastard.

Surprise, surprise.

As you can clearly see, my life is filled with excitement.

**9:32 P.M.**

He called me a starry-eyed twit.

 _What_ , you ask, did I do to merit this affectionate little nickname?

Absolutely _nothing_.

Bastard.

But I got him back with 'dungeon-dwelling hygienically ignorant moron'.

So ha.

**9:35 P.M.**

And then Minerva told us to " _please_ shut up, for God's sake; you act like children."

Well, _excuse me_ , Miss High And Mighty Deputy Headmistress.

 _He_ started it.

...I don't know why I'm dwelling on this.

**9:37 P.M.**

He's still a bastard.

**Sunday, September 1, 1991**

**11:15 A.M.**

**Astronomy Tower**

Lesson plans are the devil.

Somehow the knowledge that I'm enriching young minds with the beauty of wisdom just isn't all that invigorating.

How did I get this job, anyway?

This is my fourth year, and nothing particularly fascinating has happened, besides the whirlwind of Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers. I have to say, I was glad to see most of them go. Professor du Maurier was quite possibly the scariest excuse for a human being that I have ever witnessed in my entire life. Call me crazy, but someone who greets you with 'May you travel gaily on the broken rainbow panels of your life; may you never experience the sour taste of anguish' when you first meet has something wrong with them, sanity-wise, even if they _are_ the cousin of the Muggle writer of _Rebecca_ and therefore fancy turns of phrases run in the family. She was a writer too: romance novels, one which I had the misfortune of coming across. I have a healthy appreciation for romance, but I will never think of the names Rosamunda and Maxamillion, or danishes, the same way Ever. Again.

Then there was Professor Ford, who I _always_ thought was too old to be teaching. But of course, did anyone listen to me? No, of course not. I'm just starry-eyed Auriga Sinistra, the lone Astronomy professor; what do I know?

Well, morbid as this sounds, I _did_ have to allow myself a triumphant laugh or two when he fell over dead during the middle of a lesson.

People really should listen to me more often.

I must say, though, that I didn't object at all to Professor Sandersought, who was _quite_ an able educator. (Not to mention that he looked _amazing_ without a shirt - and no, I was not _spying_ , I was simply passing by at a very convenient time.)

And I still refuse to accept that _I'm_ the reason he quit.

Honestly! If a man said to you, 'Why don't you come to my office later so we can...discuss this further?', what would _you_ think he wanted? To talk about constellations, as he so claimed? (' _I was very interested in them as a child._ ' Ha. Yeah right.)

He clearly just got cold feet, as when I decided to be a strong woman and make the first move, he yelled for me to get off of him. _'You know, Auriga, I have been wondering for quite sometime why you knock on my door at the same time every Thursday night when I always happen to be getting undressed for bed, claiming you forgot the password to Albus' office. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but now things have grown pretty clear, and it's_ scaring _me.'_

The fact that he quit the next day had absolutely _nothing_ to do with it.

And I do not know how Snape found out about that little episode, but whoever told him will _pay_ dearly.

The bastard taunted me with that for months.

But little does he know, I am all too aware of the episode where he was humming that Celestina Warbeck ballad, 'Spell on my Heart', in the shower. (House elves can be such delightful creatures.)

And when the times comes, I will _attack_ him with that knowledge full-force.

Bwahaha.

**2:46 P.M.**

Apparently, Harry Potter's coming to Hogwarts this year. It's...strange, really, that he'll be coming to school just like any other eleven year old boy. _Everyone_ knows who he is here, and he doesn't know anything about it. This will be so strange for him, no doubt.

I wonder what it will be like. I hope I won't turn into a bumbling idiot around him - I _do_ have the slightest tendency to do that, I suppose. Or, as Snape puts it, I'm 'no more able to string together a coherent sentence than that quivering fool Quirrell'.

He loves me, really.

But how am I supposed to _teach_ The Boy Who Lived? How? I'll probably stare at his scar like some sort of insane fangirl.

Good God, I'm _nervous_. Get ahold of yourself, Auriga. You are a professional.

Yes. A professional.

Well, there _is_ one definite advantage to Potter's coming here - Snape's reaction. He was positively _livid_ all day, muttering to himself about how Harry would no doubt be just like his 'conceited, big-headed father'.

Talk about childhood rivalries going too far.

I bet Snape's still sour about that time in fifth year when the Marauders turned his hair pink.

...I _still_ laugh about that. It was truly one of the highlights of my life.

Which, I suppose, means that my life is quite devoid of highlights.

But it was brilliant, really.

Absolutely brilliant.

**11:56 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Force me to go to sleep. Force me. This is absolutely ridiculous. I do not want to be exhausted for the first day of lessons tomorrow because of... _this_.

I'm even embarrassing myself.

But Year With The Yeti really is an interesting book. Gilderoy Lockhart sure knows a thing or two about Defense Against the Dark Arts. Perhaps we can get him for professor next year; I should bring that up at a staff meeting.

He _does_ seem a bit stuck on himself, but I'm sure that being able to stare at him during all meals and assorted passings through corridors will make up for that. He really is _gorgeous_.

I haven't had a boyfriend for the past five years. Is that incredibly pathetic?

Oh, what am I talking about, of course it is.

Even sadder, I've only had _two_ boyfriends throughout my entire life. My _entire_ life.

Twenty-nine years.

All right, okay, fine.

Thirty-one years.

One was a disloyal asshole who cheated on me with a secretary called _Felicia_ , which is so thoroughly unoriginal that I won't even think about it any longer. The other took me to the Yule Ball in seventh year and walked me to classes for two weeks.

When one thinks about it, that wasn't even a _boyfriend_.

But that's so sad that I won't even think about it.

I haven't even kissed anyone since that little episode with Professor Sandersought two years ago.

And then there was that time with...

Oh, God.

I don't even like to think about it.

So I'm not going to.

The Weasley twins had spiked the _punch,_ I was horribly _drunk_ , and therefore cannot be held accountable for anything.

...

He's not even a very good kisser, anyway.

...

I'm going to sleep.


	2. Thinking Happy Thoughts

**Monday, September 2, 1991**

**4:26 P.M.**

**Astronomy Tower**

First lesson tonight; oh-so-luckily, it's with the third year Gryffindors.

If the Weasley twins fix all the telescopes to Uranus again, I'm giving out detentions. No more Ms. Nice Professor.

I suppose they think they're rather funny.

Though I admit when they did it last year, I had to laugh a little.

Aurgh. That's one of my negative points. I simply can't bring myself to _punish_ anyone. And quite frankly, part of being a teacher is punishing your students when they're wrong. I'm almost _scared_ of it.

This is probably because during my first year of teaching, I took five points away from a Hufflepuff first year for talking and she burst into hysterical sobs.

Let's get one thing straight: I _cannot_ comfort people to save my life. And so I was stuck there patting her very awkwardly on the back and saying stupid things that sounded reassuring in my mind but warped themselves horribly once they were out of my mouth. ' _Don't worry, your house won't be too mad at you...why, I remember when I lost points in my third year, they all started talking to me again after a week or two!'_ was particularly painful, but the worst one was probably ' _Don't worry, Hufflepuff hasn't won the House Cup for ages, anyway!'_

And so I was stuck bumbling like an idiot while all of her friends flashed me death glares that actually _scared_ me. I was halfway expecting one of them to pull out a wand and hex me.

Hufflepuffs, I have decided, are greatly underestimated.

Snape, on the other hand, is completely heartless when it comes to punishment. I've seen him take twenty points because someone commented in a whisper that he hadn't dotted one of his i's on the chalkboard.

He's the teacher from _hell_ , I swear it.

And of course, he feels absolutely compelled to mock me whenever it comes to points. At the end of the day, Albus collects how many points have been taken from each house, and then the hourglasses that keep score are altered. I have the longest consecutive amount of zeroes - two and a half years now.

And let me tell you, if that haughty bastard says, in that low silky voice of his, "Well, well, well, Auriga; isn't that _sweet_ of you? Surely the idea of punishment is absolutely unfathomable to a kind and caring educator such as yourself."

And I can't do anything except glare at him.

But let me tell you, he gets my best glares. And I can glare pretty threateningly when I want to. I can even match up to his legendary sneers, when he gets me particularly pissed off.

Sigh.

Maybe I should go fix a spell on the telescopes.

Just in case.

**8:02 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Damn you, Gilderoy Lockhart.

God, I'm tired. And it's barely eight o'clock at night! Which really is quite sad.

 _Why_ , out of all the teaching jobs here, do I have to have the one which requires staying up until one thirty in the morning every night?

Good Lord, I want to sleep.

I need energy. Maybe I'll venture down to the dungeons and ask Snape to whip up a Liveliness Potion or something.

No. Scratch that.

Knowing him, he'll give me extra and I'll be bouncing off the walls and laughing hysterically throughout the lesson. Which I'm sure the students would find entertaining, but I doubt that I'd be able to teach very well.

Perhaps I'll just guzzle a few mugs of coffee. Much safer.

I'm _never_ staying up to read that stupid book again.

...Okay, not _read_. Look at the twelve pages of glossy color photos.

Well, _excuse_ me. Right now, Gilderoy's the closest thing I have to any sort of paramour, and that picture of him winking roguishly as he glides through the sky on a broomstick is...wow.

Right.

Anyway.

Moving on.

Harry Potter is here; I would have written yesterday about him, but I was a bit distracted and on a bit of Gilderoy mind-fix. It's frightening, how much he looks like his father. But he has his mother's eyes.

(Harry, not Gilderoy.)

He was sorted into Gryffindor, as is to be expected. He is, after all, the savior of the wizarding world. Hufflepuff, or Slytherin certainly wouldn't suit him. Especially Slytherin, which would be frighteningly ironic.

Snape's been glaring daggers at the poor child during meals; I fear to think about what he'll do to him during his first Potions lesson.

It must be strange for Snape, I suppose, after everything that happened to the Potters. He was quite infatuated with Lily Evans when we were all at school; that was no secret, and the Marauders always gave him absolute hell because of it.

And then, of course, he was a Death Eater.

That's strange to think about, really.

I mean, of course he's sinister and awful and sardonic and quite the bastard indeed, but...he's _killed_ people before. He's probably kissed the Dark Lord's robes.

It's just...

Strange.

And I suppose it must be odd for him to see Harry.

But the glaring really has to stop. Snape needs an alternate way to express his emotions.

Or a psychiatrist.

Or both.

**Tuesday, September 3, 1991**

**10:13 A.M.**

**Teacher's Lounge**

He.

Is.

Such.

A.

Bastard.

And.

I.

Hate.

Him.

I was up until _five thirty_ in the morning. I'd temporarily forgotten the fact that drinking more than one cup of coffee prevents me from sleeping entirely. The Weasley twins set off a huge supply of Filibuster fireworks in the middle of the lesson and very nearly exploded a telescope.

It was, in short, _not_ a nice evening.

And I am _fully aware_ that I don't exactly look stunning today.

All right, I look approximately 75% dead.

And Snape _really_ didn't have to point it out. I could have made that brilliant conclusion without him.

But no, he had to breeze into the teacher's lounge, looking malevolent as always as he asked smoothly, "My God, Auriga, you're no Veela normally, but..." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Really, today, you make Hagrid look attractive."

Hence the fact that he is such a bastard and I hate him.

But oh, I got back at him. With _flourish_.

Really, there's nothing quite as entertaining as savagely greeting someone with "Fuck off, you overgrown bat" before hurling a boiling cup of coffee in their general direction.

And having it hit them.

It was beautiful, really.

I was _tempted_ to sing it. I really, _really_ was. But I like to save it, in case an absolutely perfect opportunity arises.

_You've put a spell on my heart_

_Leading me through the dark_

_I can't bear us apart_

_Your love's left its mark_

_Oh, you put a spell on my heart, baby!_

I was so incredibly tempted.

But oh, when it happens, it will be _great_.

And as it so happened, he left in a fit of spitting rage, damning everything from the mug to me to Exploding Snap and back to me again.

Honestly, sometimes I don't understand him.

But it was nice, nonetheless.

**2:45**

**Library**

Just kill me and put me out of my misery.

_Please._

Think happy thoughts.

Think happy thoughts.

Stay awake.

Think happy thoughts.

Snape being hit dead-on by a cup of coffee.

...Ahh.

**2:47**

**Library**

I should be writing out the homework assignment for tonight.

I really, really should be.

But I keep forgetting how to spell things.

Like constelashion.

There is _no_ way that's how you spell it.

...

Star. Star. Is that really how you spell it? It doesn't look right at all...

Star. Starr? Stare?

No.

Star.

That _is_ right.

God, I'm losing it.

Maybe I shouldn't be doing this right now.

**4:10**

**Bedroom Quarters**

_Why_ did he have to find me? Why, of all the one thousand-plus inhabitants of this school, did Severus Snape have to find me slumped over, dead asleep, in the library?

With. This. Book. Open.

Oh, he's going to mock me about this for months. _Months_. Because not only was I sleeping... _oh no_. I was talking in my sleep.

About him.

And the spelling of the word 'star'.

(S - T - A - R, by the way.)

One minute, I was staring down at this very page, attempting to figure out _why_ everything I wrote looked so funny. The next, his voice was _right_ next to my ear, proclaiming in that awful sardonic tone of his, "Really, Auriga, I'm quite touched that you talk about me in your sleep, but must you do it in public? You're scaring the first-years."

(Might I add that _I_ was not the only one scaring the first years. As we were leaving the library, a pair of them jumped out of Snape's way yelping. So ha.)

And everything was utterly blurry and strange-looking, as my glasses were hanging off my face, and I was completely confused, and so naturally, in my true bumbling idiot way, the first thing I said was, "S-T-A-R."

He raised an eyebrow at me in that awful way that he does and succeeded in making me feel utterly stupid.

"I can certainly see why you're the Astronomy professor. Your knowledge of the subject is amazingly vast." (Smirking all the while.) "As a matter of fact, you were even repeating the same thing in your sleep, along with your simply glowing comments about me."

I really hate him.

And so he wrapped his arm around my waist and helped me up, _still_ smirking (For the love of God, does he ever stop?) as he led me out of the library.

I must have been completely dazed, since I didn't push him off at once and start screeching at him about violating my personal space and how he should be ashamed of himself, but no doubt wasn't because he was a complete scoundrel.

I reckon we must have walked at least one corridor with his arm around my waist without my even realizing it; no doubt everyone who passed us thought we were completely insane. Thank God it was during class.

And then I _finally_ realized exactly what was happening, slapped at him a bit, and demanded that he get off of me.

He'd obeyed, and that Goddamn smirk was _still_ there, and naturally this wasn't enough of a humiliating experience for me.

Oh, no.

He _had_ to say, "Do attempt to stay awake, Auriga. Perhaps thinking happy thoughts will help."

Which, of course, had me completely bewildered for a second before I remembered what I'd written here.

"It seems that the mental image of your dousing me with coffee gets you quite cheerful," he continued smoothly before turning and disappearing down the hall, robes billowing out behind him in true evil-and-unbearable-bastard fashion.

He completely loved it, the prat.

Well, one thing's for sure. I entirely intend to hum Spell on my Heart the next time I'm around him.

_Loudly._


	3. Of In Style Magazine and Rivers in Egypt

**Wednesday, September 4, 1991**

**11:52 A.M.**

**Teacher's Lounge**

I just stopped in on one of Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons.

The poor man doesn't even know how to defend himself against a class of second-year Slytherins.

I suppose they _are_ a rather unruly lot, but _honestly_. This is a man who supposedly spent time amongst dangerous dark creatures in Albania. _I_ can handle second-year Slytherins, and at thirty-one years old I still feel compelled to pull the covers all the way over my head at night to make sure the Lethifolds don't get me.

This, I suppose, makes _me_ a more capable Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher than Quirrell.

 _Me_.

So that must not be saying a lot for Snape, seeing as he wasn't allowed the job. Again.

Bwahaha.

**11:54 A.M.**

If it weren't very probable indeed that the loss of two of our previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professors were just _slightly_ my fault, I would think that Snape was murdering them.

Really.

Actually, it would have been rather delightful if he'd murdered Professor du Maurier.

I think that he was incredibly tempted to slip poison into her pumpkin juice after that time that they were trapped in the teacher's lounge together. What, exactly, went on in there, no one's certain, and Severus doesn't like to talk about it. He gets even paler than usual when it's brought up, and even _I_ don't feel cruel enough to press the subject.

All I know for certain is that the day after, Professor du Maurier 'accidentally' bumped into him and _very_ coquettishly whispered something that sounded frighteningly like, "Our souls have been knit together in an eternal rainbow of an afghan."

I have to admit, I pity him there.

It would have been quite interesting, really, if she'd simply fallen over dead during supper. Snape had the perfect opportunity - and a completely justifiable reason - to kill the insane old bat.

Albus wouldn't let him, I suppose.

Honestly. Sometimes I think that man enjoys seeing his poor staff suffer.

**12:24 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Eavesdropping in the teacher's lounge, I've decided, is hazardous to one's health.

Fascinating as it apparently is to Professor Sprout, not all of us care to know about the time last month when Iolana Hooch's daily back slap with which she greets Snape went just a little too low.

It was, as I have feared, _not_ accidental.

As a matter of fact, she seemed to think that it was rather smooth of her.

Shudder.

... _How_ Severus attracts all this attention from our more eccentric female colleagues, I'll never know. I mean, God knows I can't see anything even the least bit attractive about him. I can't even begin to understand how anyone could think he was...good-looking.

All right. I'll give him one thing. He has nice eyes.

Except...they're not quite _nice_ , in a classic sense. They're just incredibly...intense, and always so critical and calculating and _aware_.

It's almost as though they're made of black fire.

...

Good _God_ , I'm turning into Destiny du Maurier.

Lord, save us all.

**1:30 P.M.**

**Great Hall**

I was innocently making my way to lunch, and happened to pass Snape in the hall.

And he was holding something in his hand.

Something that looked like a magazine.

Called (and with all my heart, I hope I'm wrong) In Style.

Something tells me that I don't want to know.

**1:31 P.M.**

But _honestly_ , where did Severus Snape get a copy of In Style magazine?

...I still don't want to know.

**1:32 P.M.**

My sister in London, Lyra, has a bit of a penchant for that magazine. On one of my visits to see her over the summer holidays, I had a peek at one. It was filled with fashion tips (I really cannot even begin to see how some muggle tube of a gooey black substance can succeed in making one's eyelashes longer and fuller. Lord knows it didn't work for me.), women in lingerie, and 'Ways To Ensnare His Senses... _(subtitle)_ In Bed'.

If Severus somehow acquired that for its reference to his annual beginning of the year Potions speech, he's in for quite the rude awakening.

**1:33 P.M.**

That was a horrible excuse for an article, anyway. Not the least bit helpful.

Professor Sandersought didn't respond at all in the way that he (and apparently 'every male that breathes') was supposed to.

Stupid magazine.

I hope that Severus isn't expecting much from it.

**1:34 P.M.**

I am an unbelievably pathetic excuse for a human being.

**1:35 P.M.**

But at least I don't spend all my time in dungeons leaning over cauldrons and practicing my sneers in front of the looking glass.

So ha.

**1:41 P.M.**

One who found this and read it may think that I have some sort of...unhealthy obsession with Severus Snape. I've mentioned him quite often.

Not that that means anything.

I hate him.

Bastard.

**1:42 P.M.**

That didn't sound very convincing.

But I'm thoroughly and completely sincere, thankyouverymuch.

**1:43 P.M.**

How can you tell if I'm being convincing or not, anyway? You can't tell my emotions! I'm _writing_ , for God's sake! How can you tell my tone of voice? I have no voice! It's a bunch of ink! Words! Meaningless words! Oh, I suppose you can sense the _aura_ , is that what you're thinking? Well, who do you think you are, Sibyl Trelawney?

**1:44 P.M.**

I am arguing with a notebook.

**Thursday, September 5, 1991**

**Astronomy Tower**

**9:49 A.M.**

Had my first lesson with the first-year Gryffindors last night. They're a nice lot, generally. I like them, though that Ron Weasley is quite snarky. Horribly snarky, almost. Where do men get off thinking they can be that snarky? Like...never mind.

Anyway.

He kept muttering and snickering about Hermione Granger, who is quite possibly my favorite person in the world at the moment. That girl is darling - she's an incredibly bright little thing, seems very self-confident, very well-read, and yet she's still mocked constantly by that Weasley boy.

(I bet he fancies her.

Boys are idiots about that sort of thing.)

Anyhow, she reminds me a bit of myself.

Her hair is even like mine. Wild, unruly curls.

...All right.

Horribly frizzy and bushy.

It gives her personality.

Humph.

And then there's Harry Potter, who wasn't entirely remarkable. It's amazing, how...small he is. Silly as it sounds, I was expecting this completely impressive, mature, imposing attitude about him. After all, he did bring about the downfall of You-Know-Who.

But he was small - meek, almost - quite soft-spoken; he talked to Weasley the whole time.

Then there are Lavender Brown, Neville Longbottom (the poor dear is absolutely adorable; he was a bit teary, though, as he'd just lost his toad Trevor), Parvati Patil, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas.

All together, pleasant kids.

And that's all.

Nothing else.

Nope.

I believe I've covered everything.

And I went through an entire entry without mentioning Snape.

**9:52 A.M.**

Dammit.

**9:53 A.M.**

_Ha_! I didn't mention him in that last one.

Then again, 'that last one' was one word long.

But it _could_ have been another one word, you know.

Like 'Snape', for instance.

I can tell that this little 'infatuation' is going to be incredibly short-lived.

Infatuation.

Ha. I laugh at my own word choice.

It may _seem_ that it is some sort of deep romantic interest, but I assure you, that is entirely impossible. I am _not_ that desperate, nor will I ever be.

. . .

Well, okay, maybe in five years or so.

A girl can't be twenty-nine forever, you know.

(I have learned this the hard way.)

**9:54 A.M.**

Because as of now, I'm not desperate in the least. Why should I be? I _do_ have twelve pages of glossy photos featuring Gilderoy Lockhart himself to keep me occupied for awhile.

**9:55 A.M.**

Of course, they will get old sooner or later.

And then I've got absolutely no distractions from...

No one.

Nothing.

Goodbye.

**9:56 A.M.**

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive...


	4. Rather Unfortunately Written in the Stars

**Friday, September 6, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:35 P.M.**

Was just wandering aimlessly around the corridors of Hogwarts, being hopelessly bored and cursing the fact that I'm the only professor with a lesson schedule that no one (except perhaps certain nocturnal mammals) could even begin to appreciate, when a sobbing second-year Ravenclaw burst out of the Potions classroom in complete hysterics.

Honestly, that bastard of an overgrown bat is _evil_.

Attempted to comfort aforementioned Ravenclaw. Unfortunately, she replied with something along the lines of, "He's such a philistine! He can't even properly instruct me on the chemical brewing of a simple Deflating Draught! He can't possibly comprehend how this is germane to the situation! I loathe the innumerable antagonistic aspects of his character!"

Needless to say, I didn't quite catch any of it. But I _did_ catch the general statement which was, I believe, that Snape is a bastard. Which, naturally, I know _very_ well and have witnessed first-hand countless times.

Still, it _is_ a bit degrading to know that a second-year Ravenclaw is smarter than you.

I was even _in_ Ravenclaw, and God knows I couldn't talk like that when I was twelve.

Kids these days.

**1:35 P.M.**

Note to self:

Look up 'philistine' and 'germane'.

...I should know that.

**1:37 P.M.**

By the way, Severus Snape _still_ isn't in any way attractive.

Just thought you'd like to know.

**3:42 P.M.**

**Astronomy Tower**

Have continued trekking through the school in an attempt to soothe my incredibly bored soul (and perhaps lose a pound or two. Always nice). Just passed the first year Gryffindors during passing period. Hermione Granger was lecturing Ron Weasley about something or other...all I heard was, "But really, Ron, if you want to truly enrich your mind, you can't discuss trivial matters in the middle of Professor McGonagall's lesson! You're robbing yourself of your own potential knowledge; not to mention that it's _incredibly_ rude and-"

At this, he cut her off with, "Do you ever shut up, you know-it-all twit?"

All of the other Gryffindor boys snickered at this, and the poor thing looked a little taken aback for a split-second before making a haughty 'humph!' sort of noise, spinning around, and stomping off with her nose in the air.

Ron (snarky little brat) then proceeded to complain to his friends about how she was so _incredibly_ unbearable, and he was surprised her head wasn't going to explode from excess knowledge or something of the like. "She thinks she's so much better than us. Really, she's just bloody annoying."

The boy is so clueless. I mean, it's so clear to see that that girl is horribly insecure, but just does an amazing job of hiding it.

Oh well. All men are clueless, unfortunately.

But he's _so_ smitten with her.

There's no question.

**8:25 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Just got back from another staff meeting, during which we held our annual 'Which First Year Students Will End Up Together?' bet. I've got eight galleons down on Ron and Hermione. Iolana Sprout put down ten on Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott. McGonagall grudgingly agreed with me about Weasley and Granger. Snape attempted to place a hundred on Harry Potter dying before he left Hogwarts. We wouldn't allow this; Severus seemed rather put out.

He's ridiculously morbid, really.

Then Dumbledore put down fifty and a bag of Sugar Quills on Snape and myself.

For a fleeting moment, we stood united in our steadfast determination to hex the headmaster to next Tuesday and back.

Instead, Snape informed Dumbledore through gritted teeth that he ought to stop his aggravating foolishness at once because it wasn't at all relevant nor professional.

I couldn't help but notice that he looked rather...pinkish while saying this.

Am still contemplating whether it is possible for Severus Snape to blush. It's a rather intriguing idea.

Feel compelled to remind myself once more that Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Because he's not.

**8:29 P.M.**

Snape and I.

Hahaha.

Oh, yes.

We're just written in the stars.

Keep telling yourself that, Albus.

**8:35 P.M.**

Have just recalled that the star Sinistra is in fact part of the constellation Ophiuchus, the serpent handler. Pliny said that this particular constellation caused much mortality by poisoning.

Poisoning.

How interesting and completely irrelevant to my sarcastic proclamation that Severus Snape and I were written in the stars.

And oh, there's more.

Quoted shamelessly from one of my Astronomy volumes:

_'When Ophiuchus, encircled by the serpent's great coils, rises he renders the forms of snakes innocuous to those born under him. They will receive snakes into the folds of their flowing robes, and will exchange kisses with these poisonous monsters and suffer no harm.'_

And then there's the delightful explanation of the Sinistra star.

_'Lustful, wanton, infamous, scandalous, addicted to sorcery and **poisoning.'**_

. . .

This is clearly ridiculous.

What do the stars know, anyway?

Honestly. I don't believe a word of it. I'm not a silly centaur or anything of the like. I actually possess a bit of sense, thank you.

**8:40 P.M.**

Plus, Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

**8:41 P.M.**

It seems I have a new mantra.

**Saturday, September 7, 1991**

**11:05 A.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Someone broke into Gringotts on July 31, attempting to steal the Stone.

Naturally, I've just learned this today.

I really don't keep up with the Daily Prophet.

The article appeared in today's issue. This has whipped the teachers into a frenzy - everyone's working like mad on their obstacles for the Stone's protection. At the moment, all we have is Hagrid's mad (not to mention compulsively drooling) three-headed dog.

I hate that thing.

Fluffy.

 _Who_ names a deformed monster _Fluffy_?!

Sometimes I wonder about that man.

**10:09 A.M.**

Though not nearly as much as I wonder about Severus Snape.

**10:10 A.M.**

Which is vaguely unnerving.

**10:25 A.M.**

In other news, the first year Gryffindors have Double Potions today.

With the Slytherins, no less.

I am highly skeptical about Neville Longbottoms' making it out of there alive.

Poor thing.

**2:53 P.M.**

**Teacher's Lounge**

Snape just asked me what rhymed with 'wine'.

...I may have to laugh myself to death.

Snape. A poet.

**2:54 P.M.**

Though it does have a sexy sort of allure. You know, in a brooding artist kinda way.

**2:55 P.M.**

I did not just write that.


	5. Auriga Sinistra: Super Seductress

**Sunday, September 8, 1991**

**8:25 A.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

All right. I'm taking charge. No longer will I engage in this silly could - be - classified - as - an - obsession - but - really - isn't with Severus Snape. He's a slimy old bastard, and that's that. Done. In the past. I don't know why I've wasted so much ink on him in the first place.

I've figured that the best way to move on is to find another romantic interest.

Er.

Not that I'm interested in Snape romantically.

Ugh.

Because there's absolutely nothing attractive about him. Must be...something in the air that made me even vaguely consider it.

Allergy season, perhaps.

Well, I'm moving on. It should be easy. There are plenty of single men around here.

Like...

Flitwick. And...er, Dumbledore. And Hagrid.

...Or not.

Well, I suppose there's Professor Kettleburn. He isn't bad at all.

...Then again, he only has three fingers on his right hand. He's also missing an ear. I tell you, that man simply isn't cut out for teaching Care of Magical Creatures.

All right.

Let's move onto someone else again.

Er...

Filch?

...

Shudder.

Shudder, shudder, shudder.

I _never_ want to think about that again. _Ever_.

Um...

This is ridiculous. It's much more complicated than it should be. Why can't Gilderoy Lockhart teach here, dammit? I _am_ bringing that up at the next staff meeting, like it or not. The single women around here are going mad, I'm sure. No wonder I've been... _thinking_ about Snape. Look at everyone else! He's Hogwarts' Gilderoy Lockhart, for God's sake!

...Mwahaha. I should tell him that, just for the expression on his face.

Priceless.

But no. Will not dwell on Snape.

Er...

There's always...

Quirrell.

**8:31 A.M.**

He's not so _entirely_ awful.

**8:32 A.M.**

Better than Snape, anyway.

**8:33 A.M.**

Sort of.

He doesn't have Snape's... _allure_.

**8:34 A.M.**

Disregard that comment. Am still half asleep. It's allergy season. _Allergy season._ Severus Snape has no allure.

Slatero Quirrell just happens to have less.

**8:36 A.M.**

And then there's that iguana. What's his name? ...Herman. Yes, Herman. Quirrell seems to be freakishly attached to Herman.

Will have to test true seductress skills by attempting to come between a man and his iguana.

**8:38 A.M.**

Auriga Sinistra, you are truly pathetic.

**10:02 A.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Made a point of sitting next to Quirrell instead of Snape today at breakfast. Attempted at friendly conversation, only to be stuttered at repeatedly.

Don't know if I could last in a long-term relationship with a man who stutters. I was pretty much officially fed up at, "G. . . g. . . g. . . good. . . g. . . g. . . good m. . . m. . . morning, A. . . Aur. . . Auriga."

Attempted to be nice. Cannot quite remember what I said now; this is probably a good thing, as I no doubt humiliated myself with flourish. I think I remember something about saying his turban was attractive.

Dear God, I am out of practice, seductress-wise.

Oh well. At least the only person who witnessed my pathetic actions was a man who is in love with an iguana.

And I made note that at the other side of the table, that vein in Snape's temple was throbbing away.

Let me tell you, that greatly brightened the situation.

**12:43 P.M.**

**Teacher's Lounge**

Was walking behind Snape in the corridors when we passed Draco Malfoy (the most wretched, spoiled, snarky little brat I've ever had the misfortune of teaching, by the way. Takes after his father).

That child is so disgustingly obsequious.

"Hello, Professor Snape! I can't wait until your lesson tomorrow."

I mean... _honestly_.

Even _Snape_ couldn't fall for that.

And luckily, he didn't.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," Snape had replied, with this very cold smile. Once the little devil child was out of earshot, he added, quite bitterly, "Insolent brat."

Which is in no way attractive.

And I'm serious this time. It _isn't_. I mean, what on Earth is attractive about someone scowling 'insolent brat'?

If I weren't in such serious denial, I would be forced to say that I am dangerously smitten with that man.

But not for long.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Quirrell, here I come.

**3:07 P.M.**

**Astronomy Tower**

Oh, God.

That was the most awful experience since my Professor Sandersought seduction.

I don't want to talk about it.

**3:09 P.M.**

_Why_ did I do that?

What possessed me?!

Yes.

Yes.

There we go.

I was possessed.

Auriga Sinistra would never do that of her own free will.

Possessed.

I was possessed.

Honest.

**3:11 A.M.**

But _really._ What was Severus Snape doing ( _with_ Herman) in Quirrell's classroom?

Well, I don't want to know. I'm not going to think about it right now. I may as well focus on my own suffering, as it is _plentiful_.

I suppose I must record the whole dismal story.

Sigh.

...I'm _still_ blushing. Surely that isn't healthy.

Er.

Yes.

Anyway.

I decided to take aforementioned desperate measures and go visit dear Quirrell in his classroom for a friendly chat between colleagues. (Made a point of spritzing on a bit of perfume and attempting at some makeup. Have discovered that lipstick is the only non-lethal cosmetic.)

Yes.

So...I made my way down there, ignoring a very bewildered look from Minerva as we passed one another. Reached the classroom, slipped inside, closed the door behind me. (Vaguely wondering what the hell I was doing all the while, naturally.)

The lights were off.

This caused me to remember that 'Ways To Ensnare His Senses' article in In Style; dimmed lights increase the room's aura of intimacy.

Hmm.

Had to resist the urge not to hurl and remind myself that I was on a mission. A mission to seduce a man in love with a reptile, yes, but it was a mission nonetheless.

So, very nonchalantly, I sunk down on his desk, looking for him. Saw a figure in the corner, holding that blasted iguana. Naturally, thought it was Quirrell. Who else, after all, would be in _Quirrell's_ office holding _Quirrell's_ iguana?

I mean... _really_.

And I thought I was rather good, seductress-wise.

"Oh...Slatero," I said, quite breathily, a la Marilyn Monroe.

He didn't say anything back.

So naturally I assumed that he was just fighting with himself to attempt to say something. In Quirrell fashion, you know.

The stupid bastard could have at least _said_ something so I wouldn't have completely humiliated myself.

But no, no. Naturally, Severus Snape can not be kind enough to do this simple thing.

"I was wondering if we could have...a little chat," I continued. (The pauses are apparently supposed to make men linger upon your every word. Learned this from Professor du Maurier. She may be an utterly disturbed individual, but everyone at least listened to what she had to say. And then was thoroughly frightened for a good hour afterwards.)

He nodded.

He _nodded_! He just encouraged what he knew was going to be an utterly stupid, embarrassing scene!

He. Is. Such. A. Bastard.

I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him.

...Yes.

I will not dwell on it.

I will not dwell on it.

But then...

It got worse.

On my part, I mean.

"You know, Slatero. . . you don't mind if I call you Slatero, do you? . . . Because I feel that I possess that sort of. . . intimacy with you."

And _then_ the stupid bastard started playing along. _Playing along!_ As in, _pretending_ to be the target of my seduction! (He did do a dazzlingly accurate Quirrell impression, however. But we will not think about that.)

"Y...y...yes, A...Auriga."

"And," I continued, kind of purring now. "I feel compelled to tell you that I've never felt such a...chemistry with someone before. Not like this."

"O..oh...oh r...really?"

"Yes." Flat-out purring now. I honestly cannot stand myself sometimes. "Do you feel that. . . spark between us, Slatero?"

"Y...yes."

"There could be...passion between us. I feel it."

I was really getting into it by then, and I firmly maintain that I was possessed. Utterly possessed by the allure of seduction. Even if you _are_ seducing a slimy potions master whom you think is a stammering iguana lover.

"I admit I...fantasize about you sometimes. About _us_."

There was a snort of laughter then. A very _short_ snort of laughter, yes, but I don't know why I didn't realize that things were not going to go as planned right about there. After all, _no one_ snorts with laughter the way Severus Snape does. And there is no one that Severus Snape snorts with laughter at more than me.

I was possessed. I cannot be held accountable for the actions I'm about to record.

So I...

Er...

God, I'm blushing again.

I said...

Sweet stars, _why_ did I say it?!

 _What_ came over me?!

Possessed, Auriga.

You were possessed.

But that's really no excuse.

I said...

(Cringe.)

... "Can we make those fantasies come true?"

**_WHY OH WHY OH WHYYYY?_ **

Good Lord. I may never leave the Astronomy Tower again. _Ever_. I'll just starve up here and spend the rest of my life yelling at students who sneak up here to snog.

It's more appealing than facing Snape again.

And that bastard! That stupid, slimy bastard! He said, he _said_ , "I. . . I would s. . . surely enjoy attempting, A . . . Auriga."

(BastardBastardBastardBastardBastard.)

And so I...

Er.

Walked over to him (I did not _know_ that this wasn't Quirrell, remember. It was _dark_. As in, practically _pitch black)_.

And then I realized something strange about the situation.

There was no purple turban.

Odd indeed, because I have never, _ever_ seen Quirrell without that turban.

But I continued to think it was him, because he was holding Herman. And let me tell you, no one else wants to go near that iguana. There's something creepy about it. Something. . . not right.

Er. Yes. Anyway.

So I...

Er.

I have used a freakish amount of 'er's.

Perhaps I'll just stop here.

You really don't want to know.

Honest.

And I don't want to record this. I just want to get it out of my mind. Perhaps Snape has a Forgetfulness Potion that I could borrow-

No.

No.

I am never facing that man again.

And so...

Yes.

I may as well just confess it.

Get it out in the open so I can at least be at peace with myself as I sink into a deep, deep, humiliation/depression for the rest of my miserable days on this hellish planet.

I crossed the room.

He had his back to me.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

I asked, very coquettishly, "Will you kiss me, Slatero?"

(Cringe.)

"W...w...well, Auriga," he stammered, "I...I..." And suddenly the voice was no longer Quirrell's. It was replaced by a very familiar, _very_ detestable tone. "Have no doubt in my mind that you are the most pathetic seductress I have ever encountered."

And then Severus Snape, the Slimy Bastard King himself, bursts into laughter.

Not just laughter.

 _Hysterics_.

Now, let me tell you, witnessing Severus Snape laughing in general is a scary, scary thing.

But when he possesses knowledge that could completely ruin you forever, it is downright _terrifying_.

And I made the most pathetic comeback ever.

 _Ever_.

It wasn't even a comeback.

I have one now, even! One that I _would_ have easily said, were my wits about me. _'And no doubt the_ only _seductress.'_

Boom. Simple.

But no.

I couldn't make things even the tiniest bit easy for myself.

I said, and I quote, "You're not Quirrell."

Well... _duh_.

And he just kept laughing, like some demented evil genius in a Muggle film or something.

Well, I hate him.

I hate myself.

I hate my life.

I am never, _never_ leaving this tower again.

**6:45 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

All right, I left the tower.

It was dinner time.

I was hungry.

Happened to lose my appetite when I caught sight of Snape smirking at me.

Someone just kill me.

Please.

Or him.

Yes.

Kill him instead.

You'll probably get a Special Services To The School award if you do.

**6:48 P.M.**

Have realized that 'you' are a notebook. An inanimate object.

Have started referring to you as though you are an actual person.

I need help.

Even _more_ help than Quirrell, who is in love with an iguana and can't string together a coherent sentence.

Even _more_ help than Snape, who is just plain detestable.

Yes. I think it is safe to conclude that I, in fact, hate my life.


	6. The Trials and Tribulations of Seducing a House Elf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note From 2020 Me: Listen. _Listen._ I'm sorry. Clearly this child was consuming too much caffeine or something.

**Monday, September 9, 1991**

**7:30 P.M.**

**Astronomy Tower**

Am in hiding.

Snape keeps... _looking_ at me. And his eyes sort of dance, and you can tell he's trying not to smirk.

Though I don't know why he refrains from humiliating me in every way possible.

Perhaps the bastard has finally grown a heart, like that peculiar green creature in that book by a doctor that Muggle children love so much.

...The Grunch?

The Grinch.

Yes.

The Grinch.

Let me tell you, if anyone's heart is two sizes too small, it's Severus'.

But something tells me that it's going to stay that way.

And I am not at all disappointed by that fact.

**7:35 P.M.**

No. Seriously.

I'm not.

**7:36 P.M.**

Quit looking at me like that.

**7:37 P.M.**

Yes, you.

**7:38 P.M.**

Oh, dear Lord.

**7:45 P.M.**

And you know what's really sad?

It's been only a _week_. A _week_. I'm flipping through this notebook (which, by the way, cannot look at me. Sweet stars, I'm going mad) and in my first entry, I completely detested him. I didn't even suspect that I could ever... _like_ him.

Because I don't.

I can't stand the bastard.

I just happen to be in lo...

No.

_No._

NO.

**NO!**

Kill me first.

Kill me before I say... _that._

Just...kill me.

**7:49 P.M.**

...Please?

**8:01 P.M.**

Maybe I should just stop writing in here.

If I had never started in the first place, I wouldn't... _care_ about Snape.

Not that I do.

...Dammit.

I swear, denial has grown downright instinctive.

But seriously. This notebook is doing something to me. Before I got it, I never underwent embarrassing experiences (sans Sandersought seduction). I just went about my own business.

But oh, no more.

I get this notebook, and now I'm forgetting how to spell 'star', flinging coffee mugs at not-so-innocent bystanders, and seducing demented men with stutters and iguana fetishes.

Well, no more.

I refuse.

I am officially hiding you.

**8:03 P.M.**

...No, really. I am.

Ciao.

**Wednesday, September 11, 1991**

**12:25 P.M.**

**Dungeons**

So.

Auriga.

This is quite the quaint little chronicle of your _fascinating_ life; I assure you, I've found it wildly amusing.

But really, your fixation on me is almost frightening. I also suggest that you invest in a thesaurus: your word choice is rather poor. I attempted to keep track of your use of the word 'bastard', but lost count after fifty-eight.

Oh well.

You will no doubt again use it countless times after you discover this little note.

Just felt like leaving a greeting for you.

**12:28 P.M.**

Oh, yes.

And the notebook.

I simply cannot risk its feeling neglected, on account of the fact that you apparently shower it with so much attention - even going so far as to hold conversations with it.

Hello, notebook.

**Thursday, September 12, 1991**

**3:24 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

That.

Bastard.

That BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD!

(Wouldn't want to let the BASTARD down.)

I hate him.

I _hate_ him.

Forget these ridiculous 'feelings'. I want him to rot in hell. I want him to _burn_.

I will _laugh_.

Hysterically.

Because I really, really loathe him.

All right.

And now I will attempt to relay to you the entire story.

So.

The whole without-the-diary-I'll-be-sane-again theory didn't quite work. I kept . . . _thinking_ about him. And I really, really didn't want to.

And so I decided to take ultimate measures.

I decided to disgust myself thoroughly at the mere thought of him.

This, of course, would be easy for most people.

But I am not most people.

So therefore, I must go to the extreme.

Yes.

I devised a plan I thought was brilliant.

It turned out that I am just, in fact, a larger idiot than I ever imagined.

Yay.

Quite the self-esteem booster if there ever was one.

Yes.

Anyway.

I decided to...

You don't really need to know this. I don't need to relive the humiliation.

Goodbye.

**3:32 P.M.**

Okay.

 _Fine_.

I'll tell you.

But I'm not going to like it.

So.

I am going to relay this incident in a concise and professional manner.

...

I HATE HIM I HATE HIM.

DIE, SNAPE, DIE.

**DIE.**

**3:35 P.M.**

You know, there's nothing quite as utterly satisfying as tracing over the word 'DIE' about twelve times, cackling maniacally all the while.

Just thought you'd like to know.

**3:37 P.M.**

All right.

Fine.

I'll tell you.

It was all with the most innocent of intentions, you know. I simply wanted to go have a word with Snape about...potions. Yes. Because...I've been tired lately, and I need something that will keep me awake during my lessons. Because I teach at midnight, and all.

Innocent, right?

Yes. Exactly. I thought so.

Let us just temporarily forget the fact that I happened to know that Snape wouldn't be there, on account of the fact that he's teaching today.

It really doesn't matter, after all.

So I floo'd - innocently, mind you - into his office, only to find that, quite unfortunately, he wasn't there. A tragic discovery, I assure you, as I simply dote upon spending time with that bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, **BASTARD-**

Yes.

Sorry.

Where did I leave off, now?

Oh, yes. So Snape wasn't there. And I looked around his office a bit. Casually, you know. _Innocently._ Upon doing this, I promptly made the conclusion that he must have a very twisted mind to be able to work with lots of sickly green pickled things floating in jars all around him.

Shudder.

This was, in fact, a good start. Because I _did_ find it rather disgusting.

And I suppose I should fill you in on my little 'ingenious plan' around now, shouldn't I?

Well, it all sprung from the conclusion that Severus Snape is a most unpleasant man. (Brilliant discovery, I know.)

And then I realized that if I see how he lives and observe his surroundings, I'll certainly discover just _how_ unpleasant he is, which would hopefully be so unpleasant that I'd be cured of my ridiculous unfortunately-written-in-the-stars infatuation immediately.

Sigh. It _was_ rather clever, if I do say so myself.

And it started out rather splendidly, too! After all, I could certainly never pursue a _serious_ relationship with a man who keeps deformed pickled cats in jars to add to the _atmosphere_ of the room. It's simply disgusting.

Rather encouraged by this, I then decided that it was time to move onto the next step.

It was time to...

Break into his quarters.

And so I floo'd - innocently, still - back into my quarters, only to find that Wimmy the House Elf was in the middle of cleaning my bathroom.

Ah, yes, I haven't yet mentioned Wimmy, have I?

I do prefer to forget his existence. Because he rather disturbs me, you see.

Wimmy the House Elf...

Is in love with me.

(I'm cringing as I write this, just in case you'd like to know.)

It is, I am aware, the ultimate low. No man is romantically interested in me, and with good reason. But a house elf - a _house elf_ is.

And he's not just any house elf, either.

He's the Don Juan of the house elves. The James Bond of the house elves. Let me tell you, if he had a last name, when he talked to me, he would do the entire "[Insert last name here.] Wimmy [Insert last name here.]" routine.

Naturally, I find it thoroughly disturbing.

(And just as naturally, Snape finds it hilarious. Bastard.)

But for once, I could use Wimmy's adoration against him.

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Auriga Sinistra, Super (House Elf) Seductress.

I may be the lousiest seducer-of-men on the planet. (All right, not just on the planet. In the universe, in the history of mankind, etc. etc. Must you really rub it in?)

But let me tell you something.

I can sweet-talk a house elf like nobody's business.

So ha.

"Wimmy," I said, _veeery_ smoothly, "Could you...help me with something?" (Again with the Destiny-esque pauses. They do tend to sneak up on you. I can only hope that if I am ever placed in the most unlikely situation in which I _do_ seduce a man, I'll refrain from using them. Have concluded that everything Destiny-esque is downright frightening on many, many levels.)

Now, at this his huge blue tennis ball eyes widened to the point where it was rather frightening. (Let me tell you, there is nothing as scary as a horny house elf. _Nothing._ )

"O'course Wimmy shall help you, Miss," he replied - I swear, I could practically see the hearts in his eyes. (Who knew I was so irresistible? To...elves, at least. It's better than nothing. ...I think.) "What is Miss wanting?"

And then...

He wriggled his _ears_ at me.

In what was unmistakably a _very_ suggestive house elf gesture. Let me tell you, I think it's safe to say that I've been _sexually assaulted_ by a house elf!

...But let's not dwell on that. It rather creeps me out.

And so I (this is all in the name of sneaking into Snape's chambers and being cured of this detestable infatuation, mind you. It was by no means done out of my own free will) leaned down and whispered into his frighteningly large house elf ear:

"I need you to let me into Snape's bedroom quarters. I assure you, I'll be . . . _eternally_ grateful."

This was apparently too much for the little thing. The sick-minded, perverted, foul, disgusting little thing. What can't he like another house elf, for God's sake?

Then he wouldn't go around _kissing_ the Astronomy professor.

And let me tell you, that was the first kiss I've had for two years.

And it was from a house elf.

Excuse me while I cry.

**3:54 P.M.**

All right.

I'm back.

Please disregard the teardrops on the page. That's just me, lamenting over my own state of extreme miserable patheticness.

But a bloody _house elf_ kissed me! I'm scarred for life!

I can safely say that Snape kissed better. _Much_ better. I would spend my life kissing Snape every Goddamn day in exchange to erase that incident from my memory.

(Er. Not that I want to spend my life kissing Snape every Goddamn day as is.)

Now, back to this horrible recap of events.

Let me tell you, I was tempted to kick his little house elf arse. _So_ tempted. Words cannot _express_ how tempted. I wanted to see him suffer extreme pain for taking such advantages.

But I also wanted to get into Snape's quarters.

One may say I was ruthless.

So I forced the most painful smile ever (I could _feel_ a vein throbbing in my temple. _And_ my eye twitching, no less. I am turning into Snape. But with damn good reason.) at Wimmy and breathed, most coquettishly, "Will you help me, Wimmy?"

"Wimmy will do whatever Professor Sinistra is wanting of him, Miss. But Wimmy is wondering, Miss..."

Am cringing again. Just thought you'd like to know.

"...Does you love Wimmy?"

Now, I was desperate, mind you. Desperate.

And yet I still managed to feel like a complete idiot as I responded (TwitchShudderSneer-ing all the while, thank you), "Yes, Wimmy. I love you."

Why do I do these things?

_Why?!_

It's all in the name of Severus Snape.

He'd better be Goddamned grateful, that's all I'm saying.

"All right, Miss," Wimmy said (let me tell you, I was about ready to drop to my knees and give God my thanks right then. I was afraid the little twit would kiss me again), apparently satisfied with this. "Follow Wimmy."

And so I did, wiping my mouth madly and scowling all the while as he led me to the entrance of Snape's chambers and...

Touched the door.

I swear, those house elves have too much power. Really. All the thing had to do was touch the door, and it swung open.

Shudder. Imagine what he could do, using that power with malignant intentions.

No. I choose not to.

So then, he batted his eyelashes ridiculously at me and started blowing kisses, which was downright embarrassing, as Nearly Headless Nick and the Grey Lady happened to be passing by just then, and both eyed me _extremely_ suspiciously.

Stupid ghosts.

"Can Wimmy see Miss again?" he asked.

Well, by now this was getting just painful.

"Yes," I said back, rather impatiently. "But now go."

His eyes immediately swelled with tears, which is really just too pathetic for words.

"I...er...love you, Wimmy," I forced myself to choke out, rather painfully.

And so the stupid thing grinned madly at me before skipping off down the halls, singing - get this - Spell on My Heart to himself.

It's disgusting, really.

Just disgusting.

And so I there I was, in front of Snape's chambers - and God knew I went through hell to get there.

So I stepped inside, tentatively, preparing myself to be thoroughly disgusted by the mere mention of Severus Snape.

And after all that, it didn't _work_.

It didn't work.

I snogged a bloody house elf, and it didn't work!

(Of course, I hate Snape now, the bastard. But I didn't hate him then, as I didn't have the information I have now, but let me tell you, I was quite ticked off then.)

After all, how could someone hate him when he has the entire works of Shakespeare?

As in, every thing that Shakespeare's ever written.

Much Ado About Nothing (which I've always been particularly fond of), Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Winter's Tale - every play the man ever wrote, in addition to a full collection of sonnets, poems, and ballads.

Now, Shakespeare is my weakness. It's right up there with Chocolate Frogs and Gilderoy Lockhart books.

And Snape likes it. _Loves_ it, according to what I've discovered.

. . . Am currently trying to ignore the whole written-in-the-stars thing at the moment, as am attempting to be furious at the bastard.

Naturally, his quarters were immaculate. I would have expected him to be a compulsive neat freak.

Then again, that's not necessarily unattractive.

But it was the most unattractive thing I had about him, thus far.

The man even had a _piano_. A piano. For as long as I can remember, one of the traits of my (apparently nonexistent) Prince Charming has been that he played the piano.

But just because Snape _has_ a piano doesn't mean that he actually _plays_ it. He could just...have it...because.

Yes.

Right.

My reasoning is brilliant.

Go me.

And that's when I continued on over to his desk, only to find (under many a Gryffindor essay with big, flourishing 'F's scribbled across them) a beautifully drawn Star Chart that I recognized - I have the same one myself.

Now, I have to admit, my heart melted at this.

_Melted._

But can you really blame me? I'd had an awful day thus far; I'd been sexually assaulted by a house elf!

And then, upon further inspection, I discovered that a certain star in the Ophiuchus constellation was circled.

Which happened to be 'Sinistra'.

I think that I squealed.

I actually _squealed_.

And not just any squeal, either. The kind of squeal that would have been reserved for meeting Gilderoy Lockhart in person, if that ever actually happens. (Dare I dream...?)

Now, this would have been wonderful, really. (Despite the fact that it's Severus Snape, and all.) I was almost thrilled, until...

I noticed something else on his desk.

A very familiar notebook.

I was very dazed, mind you - the first thing I thought was, 'Hmm. How interesting. He has the same notebook as I do.'

And then I realized that I, as a matter of fact, hadn't seen my own notebook for quite sometime. But how, I wondered, could Severus Snape possibly get his hands on my diary? I'd hidden it _carefully_!

Er. Well...if you consider hiding something carefully hurling it at the nearest house elf and shrieking, "Keep it away from me! I never want to see this again! It's driving me mad!"

Erm.

Yes.

But how could the blasted house elf _give it_ to Snape?!

Surely, the stupid little creature knew how much I detested him! We're not exactly subtle about it! I threw a coffee mug at him, for God's sake!

But anyway. Will not go about mentally abusing house elves. The poor thing was probably drawn in by Snape's irresistible allure.

Heaven knows I can surely sympathize.

Anyway, a sinking feeling had come over me by then. I remember quite distinctly mumbling, "Oh no..."

But I opened it up, and sure enough, my own handwriting stared up at me.

And so I flipped through it, moaning in desolation (that BASTARD), and where I had left off writing, there was some unfamiliar handwriting.

His handwriting rather reminds me of him, actually - it's very sharp, and rather jerky, and yet at the same time, it's not at all unpleasant...

Oh, stop it, Auriga! You're mad at him, remember? He's a bastard!

I shouldn't have copied all of this down. Now all I can focus on is the Shakespeare and the piano and the star chart with Sinistra circled.

Why does the detestable bastard have to be so strangely likable?

Damn him.

I only wish he had caught me down there. He would have surely been a complete asshole about it, which would still have me angry at him now.

Damn him again.

And again.

And again.

**4:17 P.M.**

...And again.

Just for good measure.

**8:25 P.M.**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Hmm. It seems that Harry Potter has been made the new Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

Excellent.

That vein in Snape's forehead was throbbing with reckless abandon throughout dinner.

...I really do love him.

**8:27 P.M.**

Harry.

Not Snape.


	7. The Extreme Beauty of Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: (flippant) mentions of suicide

**Friday, September 13, 1991**

**Teacher's Lounge**

**9:15 A.M.**

Ah, Friday the thirteenth. I really do detest Friday the thirteenths. Last time we had one, Snape caught my hair on fire and claimed it was an accident. Accident my foot. I looked an absolute wreck for the next month. And that's quite awful indeed, considering how my hair usually looks in general.

Dammit.

Snape just came in.

Must hide you.

He can't know that I was in his quarters.

Will act casual.

**9:26 A.M.**

Dammit again.

Stupid man _realized_ that I was in his quarters, as my notebook was, in fact, gone.

Just like a neat freak like him to realize that it wasn't there anymore.

Hmph.

Blasted bastard felt compelled to say, "Auriga, flattered as I am that you've been sneaking into my quarters, I'd advise that you don't do it again. I _am_ known to keep a dangerous potion or two down there, and we wouldn't want you to sprout an extra set of ears, now, would we?"

He threatened me.

The slimy prat threatened me.

I did, however, get to respond with, "Well, Severus, I'm rather flattered with your fascination with me as well. Otherwise you wouldn't really care about reading my diary, now, would you? That _can_ be classified as...stealing, you know. I'm sure Dumbledore would love to hear about it."

Bwahaha.

So now he's sitting across from me, looking moody and irritable.

How very unlike him.

I felt tempted, for a minute, to bring up the piano and the Shakespeare and the circled Sinistra star. God knows that would humiliate the git properly.

. . . But I couldn't.

And I honestly don't know why. Surely he would have done the same thing to me. Milked it for all it was worth.

I swear, there's something wrong with me.

This is insane.

Need coffee.

For self defense at least, if not to drink.

**10:01 A.M.**

Unexpected as this no doubt is, I'm eternally in debt to Wimmy.

Thanks to him, I've got Severus Snape...dare I think it?... _jealous_. I'm not entirely sure that that was what it was, but it certainly seemed that way: why else would he stand up, scowling, and glare at the flowers for a minute before exiting the teachers' lounge, muttering under his breath all the while?

And unless I'm much mistaken, he _did_ turn a faint shade of green.

Bwahaha.

Who would have thought that being sent flowers from a mentally ill house elf could be so beneficial?

But it was. Oh, it was.

One of the house elves - the one I scared with the diary episode, I believe - came in and delivered them, eyeing me in fear all the while.

I took them and read the card, which said, quite simply, "For you, Miss."

Now, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who sent them, on account of the fact that the only male being of any kind who is interested in me is a house elf, but I decided to put on a show, just because I was feeling particularly spiteful toward Snape.

"Oh!" I gushed, breathing in a whiff of such a sickly sweet scent that I can _still_ smell it (ugh), "He shouldn't have!"

This seemed to pique Snape's interest, as he leaned over during my little display and narrowed his eyes rather quizzically.

"What are those?" he demanded.

"Flowers, Snape."

(Starry-Eyed Twit: 1, Dungeon Dwelling Moron: 0!)

"I know that they're flowers! Who sent them?"

"Oh," I said, very lightly, "Just a friend. You don't know him."

"And is this...friend sane?"

"Well, he doesn't go stealing diaries, if that's what you mean."

(2 to 0! Go me!)

"You know what I mean, Auriga!"

"Actually, Severus, I'm not quite sure that I do."

And with that, he fixed me with one of his weaker sneers (honestly, the man's losing his touch) and left the teachers' lounge in a huff.

Ah, I do love my life sometimes.

**Astronomy Tower**

**11:02 A.M.**

Yay. Have received another 'you starry-eyed failure, I'm so ashamed, how could you do this to me?!' owl from Mum. One would think that being a processor at the most prestigious wizarding school in Britain is at least a _tiny_ achievement, but not to my mother. No siree. The woman will be in utter agony until I find a suitable boyfriend - turned - fiancé - turned - husband. Well, I'm sorry, Mother, but I'm afraid that I scare even freaky men with stutters and severe iguana fetishes. I am, however, leading on a house elf who can clean toilets like nobody's business.

Yes, it is safe to say that I am near-sickeningly accomplished.

. . . Not.

And now the woman's got me in a horrible mood. Her letters have a way of reminding me full-force just how pathetic I am.

And so, for your (you being the notebook, my sole confidant and friend) viewing pleasure, the Why Auriga Sinistra Is Pathetic list:

  1. I have no boyfriend, nor have I had one in years; not since Paul, the bloody bastard who cheated on me with a Leaky Cauldron barmaid for three months without my knowing.



Bastard.

Though, I must admit, not to Severus Snape-esque proportions.

  1. A house elf is in love with me, and is (quite sadly) the first . . . "person" to have ever sent me flowers. _Ever._
  2. My mum, the woman who was Head Girl at Hogwarts, was universally expected to become the first female Minister of Magic, and gave it all up to marry a Muggle _garbage man_ (true, he's a university professor now, but _still_ ), thinks that _I_ am pathetic.
  3. I cried at the end of Gadding With Ghouls.



. . . Oh, sweet stars, I'm depressing myself.

There has to be _one_ positive thing about me. _One_. I mean, I'm not asking for much. Just a reason to go on living.

Oh, yes.

Right.

Reasons Why Auriga Sinistra Is _Not_ Pathetic:

  1. Severus Snape thinks that I am the true love of some dashing wizard, and is now totally, completely, and wholly jealous.



. . . I love my life.

**Astronomy Tower**

**2:10 P.M.**

Sat next to Quirrell at lunch today and realized that there is a very strange aroma coming from that turban of his. Ew. Maybe it's a very good thing that my seduction attempt failed. Now no one will ever need to know, besides me and Snape.

. . . Unless he told someone.

Oh, God. What if he told Quirrell about it and now that disgusting excuse for a man (Quirrell, not Snape) thinks I have some sort of . . . _thing_ for him? And what if he can barely keep a straight face when he's around me because the very thought that he would cast a second glance at that frizzy-haired imbecile Auriga Sinistra is simply laughable?! Hell, he might undergo thoroughly unnerving sexual practices with iguanas, but Sinistra?! Ha! Even _he_ wouldn't sink so low!

. . . I hate my life.

**2:16 P.M.**

Snape wouldn't do that, would he? I mean, sure, he's evil, but is he _that_ evil? Is _anyone_? I reckon You-Know-Who isn't even that heartless!

. . . Oh, God. He would. I know he would. He's _Snape_ , for God's sake. But Quirrell hasn't looked _too_ maliciously amused around me lately - of course! Snape's biding his time! Holding it against me! And then, if I do one thing, _one thing_ to send him over the edge, he'll STRIKE.

Oh, God. Just kill me. Kill me!

I am very, very, _very_ tempted to Avada myself.

**2:18 P.M.**

No. I can't do it. I can't. I will put the wand down and back away.

I must think of life in all its beautiful splendor. I must focus on what I have to live for. Like . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

Oh, Lord. I'm going to cry.

**2:19 P.M.**

LOCKHART.

Gilderoy Lockhart.

I'll live for him.

. . . For a man I haven't even met and never will. For a beautiful, godlike man who doesn't give a damn about me because he DOESN'T KNOW I EXIST!

. . .

Oh, hell. I'm killing myself.

**2:21 P.M.**

Snape.

I'll live for Snape, just to spite him because I know he wants me dead more than anyone else on this Earth. Who knows? Maybe he planned all of this in an elaborate conspiracy to be rid of me, and he'd completely predicted these results?

Well, I'll thwart his evil scheme! Severus Snape, I am one step ahead of you! Bwahaha!

So there. Even if I _don't_ have anything to live for, I will persevere, in the name of Snape!

**2:34 P.M.**

Well, that was a bit melodramatic.

I think it's a certain time of the month.

. . . Just keep me away from coffee mugs and Gilderoy Lockhart books. I can't be held liable for any damage that may be caused.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:25 P.M.**

Well, Snape just left.

. . . Not like _that._

Honestly.

Just because I happened to write 'bedroom quarters', and I start with 'Snape just left' doesn't mean . . .

Oh. Right. I s'pose I'm arguing with a notebook again.

But anyway, I've rather determined one thing:

He's jealous.

Yes, jealous.

That's the only possible reason. Why else would he burst into my room - okay, so he didn't burst, exactly. Actually, he knocked and everything. But he did sneer and sweep past me once I opened the door like some sort of sexy overgrown bat.

Er.

Minus the 'sexy', of course.

And then he demands, very coldly, "Well, where is he, Auriga?"

To which I had to try very, _very_ hard to refrain from laughing. I mean, why on earth would he think that I had a man in my room? Just because I happened to be muttering absentmindedly to myself (I tend to do that, and also tend to merit scared looks from passersby because of it), he immediately concludes that I'm having some steamy affair and hiding a man in my room.

So I decided to play along a bit.

It was the least I could do, after all, after that terrible Iguana Incident.

Which I will never, ever forget.

Cringe.

"What ever do you mean, Severus?" I responded, but in a pointedly non-convincing sort of way.

"Please, Auriga," he snapped. "Do you expect me to believe that a man would willingly send you flowers, were he not getting . . ." he sneered, "something . . . in return?"

Which, I think, was _very_ insulting. My sparkling company is just enough to ensnare any man! I don't need to sleep with them in order to keep them around! I mean, I'm Auriga Sinistra, Super Seductress, for God's sake!

. . . Or something like that.

Anyway. Back to the unpleasant encounter with Snape.

I'd rather lost my poised manner by about then. I don't think it showed, really, but I may have come off as a bit . . . miffed.

"Get out of here, you revolting bat, or I'll throw another coffee mug at you!"

His left eye twitched involuntarily at that, which I have to admit was quite delightful. It's wonderful, having that kind of power over someone. Who needs the Imperius Curse when you have . . . coffee mugs?

It's a shame You-Know-Who never got ahold of them.

"Only too gladly," he spat, looking rather furious by now. "But let me warn you, Auriga, this man is bound to come to his senses sooner or later. Not everyone puts up with you as well as I do."

And then he turned and swept right out again.

And I know that I should have been insulted by this. I mean, 'this man is bound to come to his senses sooner or later'?! I am very, very, _very_ would-be offended.

If it weren't for that last part.

_'Not everyone puts up with you as well as I do.'_

Of course, it's not exactly a heartfelt sentiment. At all. But - and I honestly don't know why - it seemed to almost imply something more.

Hmm.

Snape's jealous . . . and he apparently cares enough to put up with me in a manner he thinks is 'well'.

Interesting.

Veeeery interesting.


	8. Worthy of a Hogwarts, A History Mention?

**Saturday, September 14, 1991**

**Teacher's Lounge**

**8:15 A.M.**

Hehe.

Snape's angry.

. . . Well.

No.

Let's rephrase, shall we?

Snape's _livid_.

At Professor McGonagall.

Which really, really isn't clever. I mean, I could never, ever be cross with Professor McGonagall.

. . . Well, okay, I admit it. I _have_ been cross with her. But I could never do anything about it! I couldn't confront her!

No matter how long I work with her, she will never, _never_ be 'Minerva' to me (or at least, I couldn't call her that. It's _disrespectful_ ). She is Professor McGonagall. I still get _scared_ when I do things like tap my foot or whisper to Victoria Vector (what were her parents _thinking_? I'm just glad for her sake that she wasn't a boy - Victor Vector. Can you imagine it?) during staff meetings. I feel like I'm in her class whenever I'm in her presence, and it's unnerving.

But oh no. Not Snape.

Snape is pissed.

. . . Not, of course, in the drunken sense.

Which is good.

Because when he's drunk, he does things like kissing me.

And I wouldn't want that, now would I?

. . . We need more alcohol in this school.

. . . Erm. Anyway.

Please disregard that comment.

I don't know why he hadn't found out about this earlier - I'm thinking that no one on the staff really wanted to tell him, on account of the fact that his reaction was rather predictable. But honestly - earlier this week, McGonagall announced to us that she'd used the school funds to get Harry Potter a Nimbus 2000, which is apparently not breaking _any_ school rules. (Personally, I just think that she's bitter about Gryffindor losing so many Quidditch matches. Actually, I can't quite blame her.)

Snape, conveniently, wasn't there.

And then when Harry rather openly received the broomstick during breakfast on Thursday, Victoria conveniently began coughing madly (this was planned, I must admit, and rather brilliantly acted - she wanted to be a stage actress, but then went on to teach Arithmancy instead. How dull.) and Snape was too busy scoffing at her to notice.

But then that little blithering brat, Draco Malfoy, apparently told him. Oh, I can just see it now.

"Professor Snaaaaape! Potter has a Nimbus 2000!"

 _[Snape's eyes go red.]_ "What?! Thank you, my fellow greasy haired Slytherin! I must avenge this act of evil!"

. . . Okay. Probably not _just_ like that.

But close.

My goodness, I must admit, I was so glad to witness it this morning. I was sitting there with Victoria flipping through Witch Weekly and mocking Celestina Warbeck's nauseatingly risqué excuse for robes while McGonagall looks on with an eyebrow raised, and then - BAM!

The door slams open, and-

"Minerva!" Snape barked. "Would you mind telling me what the _hell_ the meaning of this is?"

And McGonagall says, in this perfect deadpan, "I'm sorry, Severus, but I simply couldn't resist. I should have told you sooner. We're through."

Strict old bat as she usually may be, I have to admit, I really like her sometimes. She _does_ have a gift for sarcasm. (Especially around Professor Trelawney.)

He just _glared_ at her as though she'd just quoted Gadding With Ghouls or something equally as horrendous and snapped, "I don't want your sarcasm, Minerva, though I assure you, I am absolutely heartbroken that we are . . ." _Sneer._ " . . . Over."

"Through," Victoria had corrected.

Snape then turned the glare on her. He really, really cannot stand her. I don't know why. I think she's quite wonderful - she's only been teaching here since last year, and she's incredibly cool. She has a fiancé that lives in Paris, and she's traveled all over and she's too classy for words. (Why she's an Arithmancy professor, I honestly know not.) She also looks like a model.

. . . If I weren't so desperate for friends, I think I might've been forced to hate her.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, right.

Snape.

As usual.

"You," Snape hissed now, drawing dangerously close to McGonagall, "Bought Potter a broomstick."

McGonagall simply nodded calmly to this.

"A broomstick!" Snape continued. "Not just a broomstick, a Nimbus 2000! The best kind there is! And you accuse me of favoring my students! I do not buy them _broomsticks_!"

"That's because you're a cheap old jackass," Victoria felt compelled to mutter then.

Okay, maybe I can see why he doesn't like her.

Of course, he doesn't like me either.

But he doesn't like me in a _different_ way than he doesn't like her.

I'm . . . _Sinistra_. I don't know. We throw coffee mugs and argue to the point of no return and sometimes get along, either if we've had too much to drink or on rare occasions when something very serious has happened and no one witnesses our being nice-ish to each other. (Like when McGonagall's husband passed away a few years ago - after the funeral, we had a discussion about people we were close to who had died, and it turns out his fiancée was killed by Death Eaters. Can you imagine that? Snape with a _fiancée_? It was an arranged marriage, but . . . _still_. People are quite surprising at times.)

He just . . . doesn't _like_ Vector.

Snape and I, on the other hand, have a complex relationship.

Oh, right.

Where was I?

Why do I always feel compelled to go off on tangents?

Who knows?

Enough questions.

"That is unprofessional behavior, McGonagall!" he'd sneered. "Something I honestly wouldn't have expected from you. Now, I demand you take back that broomstick or I'll be forced to complain to Dumbledore!"

"Really?" McGonagall asked, composed as ever. "Because I asked Dumbledore about purchasing the Nimbus 2000 that seems to be causing you so much distress, Severus, and he seemed to think it a perfectly wonderful idea."

Snape just went all silent for a bit, eyes twitching, veins throbbing, and all. It was rather hilarious, but I tried not to laugh. After all, it's not his fault that he's a complete nervous wreck most of the time.

. . . Well, maybe it is.

At this, Victoria just rolled her eyes at me and said, very nonchalantly, "Severus, darling, just get _over_ it."

Just like that. My God. I could never just call him 'darling' like that. Snape is _not_ the type one would call 'darling'.

I wonder about Victoria sometimes.

. . . In the nicest way possible, of course.

And so Snape stormed out, McGonagall shook her head and went back to finishing her coffee, and I simply had to record the extraordinary events that just took place.

Ooh, Victoria's complaining about Snape now.

"I can't stand that man," she's saying to McGonagall. "I can't see why the hell Albus keeps him employed here. He's an awful teacher and _everyone_ hates him - he's completely unpleasant about everything. He probably hasn't gotten laid in years, he-"

Oh, I'm blushing.

Blushing.

Horribly.

I can feel my face gone incredibly red.

". . .. What're you blushing about?"

Oh dear.

"Nothing."

" . . . _You_ haven't slept with him, have you?!"

"No!"

"Well, thank God. I would've had to wonder about you for a minute there, Aur."

And now she's off rambling again.

McGonagall is looking at me. Oh, wonderful. I think she saw Snape and I during that unfortunate ball incident involving the spiked punch. Aurgh. The whole school probably thinks Snape and I are madly in love, and just because Victoria's new she has no idea about it, and-

Oh, never _mind_.

I'm going to go hide in my room.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:49 A.M.**

Ah. This is better.

Perhaps I'll work on lesson plans.

. . . I really hate lesson plans.

My goodness, I'm bored. I wish I had something to do during the day.

. . . Oh my God.

What was that?

**8:50 A.M.**

Auriga, you are just imagining things.

There is not someone moving around in your room.

**8:51 A.M.**

Maybe it's just Wimmy.

Yes, yes, of course. It's just Wimmy. Don't be ridiculous.

**8:52 A.M.**

But I don't think it's Wimmy. Wimmy always sings - really creepy things, too, like 'Sexual Healing' and 'Let's Get it On'.

I don't think elves should have access to Muggle music.

I always feel like he's . . . hinting at something.

**8:53 A.M.**

Ugh.

**8:55 A.M.**

Okay, this is starting to scare me. It sounds kind of . . . slithery.

Oh, God.

What if it's a Lethifold?

OhGodOhGodOhGod. I'm going to be killed by a Lethifold. I _hate_ Lethifolds. My uncle Janus was killed by one - my Auntie Bee just found a note on the bedside table one morning that said ' _oh no a Lethifold's got me i'm suffocating.'_ and he was gone, just like that. We had a funeral and everything, and it was wretchedly sad. I always loved Uncle Janus.

. . . Of course, then three months later Mum went to go stay at the Green Dragon and who did she see there but Uncle Janus, snogging the landlady. At first it was this totally bewildering miracle, until she worked out what happened. She owled Aunt Bee right away, and my aunt came over there with a frying pan and beat old Janus senseless.

. . . So I suppose maybe I'm not in that much danger.

But _still_. It could very well be a real Lethifold this time.

**8:57 A.M.**

Oh my God.

I just saw a green, scaly foot from under my bed.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God. I'm so scared. What is it? It definitely wasn't human, that's for sure. Or Wimmy. I'd actually like to see him right now, freaky Muggle sex songs and all. It would be much less unnerving.

Well, at least I know it's not a Lethifold.

**9:01 A.M.**

Oh right. Right. I guess I'm kind of stupid.

I perhaps overreacted just a bit.

It's _Herman_ , Quirrell's iguana! I know this because, well, there aren't exactly many iguanas running around the school, and besides, he has his little pink collar on that has a heart-shaped license reading, well, 'Herman'.

I wonder how he feels about that.

It must be a real blow to his masculinity.

Poor iguana.

I mean, really, Slatero . . . _pink_?

To think I tried to seduce him.

Shudder.

But what I'd like to know is what Herman's doing here. Does this mean that Quirrell's been in my bedroom?

. . . Ewwwww.

Herman's kind of darling, actually, in a weird way. He keeps nuzzling my arm. Aw, what a sweet little iguana. What a cuuute little iguana.

**9:04 A.M.**

Auuurgh! Get off my arm, you sick thing!

GET OFF!

**9:06 A.M.**

I now know more about the sexual practices of iguanas than I ever cared to.

**9:55 A.M.**

Does 'oh, get off of me! Really! What if someone sees you like this? That's sick! There are . . . _other_ things out there you could do this to instead of me! Really!' sound _that_ . . . suggestive?

Well, I suppose it _is_ that suggestive.

But it was an iguana.

Severus seemed to miss that part.

He was no doubt under the impression that I had . . .a _man_ in here.

What I'd like to know is why he's always around my quarters so he can oh-so-conveniently burst in at . . . inconvenient moments.

"Auriga!" he'd hissed, sounding rather . . . appalled. "It is _nine o'clock in the morning_!"

"I _know_ that," I snapped in return, still rather . . . disgusted, and intent upon getting rid of my sweater as soon as possible.

Which was, of course, an incredibly stupid move.

I swear, I am subconsciously completely set on humiliating myself in every way possible.

I mean, Severus walks in and yells out, "Auriga! It is nine o'clock in the morning!" and _what_ do I do?

I hurl my sweater at him.

And _yes_ , I was wearing a bra.

I'm not _that_ subconsciously set on humiliating myself.

He blinked at me.

"Get _out_ ," I ordered sharply, glaring at Herman, who was watching the entire display rather innocently from the bed. "I'm _busy_."

"I gathered," he deadpanned, following my gaze to everyone's favorite iguana. He then recoiled. "Oh, _God_ , Auriga. Don't tell me Quirrell's talked you into using that iguana in your strange sexual practices."

"Severus!" I screeched. "Quirrell and I do not . . . Herman is _not_ . . . I don't . . ."

And only then did I realize that he wasn't looking at my face anymore.

"Oh, God, stop it! Didn't anyone ever teach you about _eye contact_?"

Quite conveniently, the blanket I grabbed to wrap around myself was the one Herman was on, and he went flying to the floor.

Bwahaha. Die, sick iguana.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you about clothing?" he retorted blandly. "Oh, wait - you're busy throwing it at me."

Aurgh. Bastard.

"Well," he'd sneered then. "Where's our dear turban-clad friend now?"

"Se-ve- _rus_! Quirrell does not . . . I don't . . . I would _not_ -"

And I honestly believe that someone up there in the sky hates me.

Passionately.

Or at least enjoys seeing me suffer.

Because at that very moment, Quirrell approached from the back of the room (he floo'd in looking for Herman, I bet, but try to tell Snape that) looking rather disheveled and adjusting his turban.

"A . . . ahh . . . there y . . . you are!" he'd said to Herman, walking over and scooping up the nasty little creature into his arms.

He then spotted Snape and I.

I was still, conveniently, without a shirt.

Which Snape was still, conveniently, holding.

I swear, I didn't know someone's eyes could possibly widen as much as Quirrell's did. "A . . . Auriga . . . S . . . s . . . s . . . Severus, d . . . didn't mean to . . . disturb."

"You're not disturbing anything!" I proclaimed quickly.

Snape, on the other hand, gave me a nasty glare and retorted, "Likewise, Quirrell."

"What are you doing here?" I demanded of Quirrell.

Snape raised an eyebrow in a manner that clearly meant 'oh, right, you're going to fool me, you ridiculous twit'.

"I . . . I knew Herman was going to be here," he returned.

"And you knew that . . . how?"

"He l . . . left me a n . . . note."

A note.

Ha.

Right.

Oh, so iguanas can write now?

That man is so psycho.

And so Quirrell left, muttering to himself in an extremely stutter-y manner.

Which, of course, left Snape and I standing just _staring_ at each other, while I longed most desperately for a shirt.

I really should stick to robes.

"Oh, give me that," I'd ordered, reaching for the shirt.

Because I am just lucky like this, I stumbled backward as soon as I'd grabbed one of the sleeves, pulling Snape right down on top of me as we both fell toward the bed.

And then, then, _then_ Wimmy decides to make his glorious entrance as he prances in singing 'Physical'.

He gasped, horrified, and his huge eyes filled with tears.

"Miss Auriga Miss!" he wailed. "Wimmy was thinking we is having something between us! Wimmy was _wrong_!"

And well, of course I immediately reply after the retreating heartbroken house-elf, "Wait, Wimmy, it's not what it looks like!"

Which was just bad.

Bad.

Bad.

And then, for the second time since the school year has started, Snape burst into hysterics. Completely mad and insane laughter.

And just to put the sprinkles on the cake, Victoria walks by and glances into the room.

To see shirtless Auriga in bed with the universally detested Potions master.

"Not sleeping with him, huh?" she'd asked, winking, before continuing to walk.

And now I am sitting here alone and wearing a shirt, thankyouverymuch, and wondering _why_ things like this always have to happen to me. Why _me_?!

Victoria isn't exactly good with secrets.

This will be around the entire school by this evening.

I am the whore of Hogwarts.

**10:03 A.M.**

I wonder if I could get mentioned in a new edition of Hogwarts, A History for that.


	9. The House Elves Strike Back

**Sunday, September 15, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**6:15 P.M.**

Perhaps I'm just paranoid now (and really, after an incident like that, who _wouldn't_ be?) but it seems like everyone is . . . looking at me strangely.

Surely my reputation as the Hogwarts Whore hasn't spread _that_ quickly?

. . . Though I suppose it would explain why one of the seventh year Slytherins winked at me earlier as I passed him in the hall.

**6:17 P.M.**

Ugh. Children these days.

**6:18 P.M.**

And I _don't_ think it was just me when I saw Percy Weasley on my way to the staff room and he practically dove out of my way. Honestly - what does the boy think I'm going to do, pounce on him in the middle of the hall?

Shudder.

**6:20 P.M.**

Puh-leeze. As if he's such an angel to begin with. I've seen him staring across the Great Hall at Penelope Clearwater during meals.

**6:21 P.M.**

My God, I don't want to be known as the whore of Hogwarts! It's awful! _Awful_! I am as un-whorish as one could possibly get! The only man I've kissed in the past two years is the perpetually-acrimonious Professor Snape, for God's sake!

. . . And then there's Wimmy.

But I'm really, really trying to forget about that.

**6:23 P.M.**

I think that I need a psychiatrist.

**6:24 P.M.**

Or a boyfriend.

**6:25 P.M.**

Or a psychiatrist boyfriend.

Hmm.

Intriguing.

**Monday, September 16, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**7:36 A.M.**

Oh God. I've just thought of something. I have the third year Gryffindors tonight. That means the Weasley twins.

These are the kind of things that the Weasley twins dote upon. And I know that somehow - _somehow_ \- they'll have heard about this. Those boys are quite apt to wind up in the exact place that you don't want them to be. Like last year, when I was trying to sneak a pint or two (or six) of ice cream from the kitchens during the dead of night because I was feeling a bit glum about my seemingly perpetual state of misery; the Weasleys were there, and they had the last of the ice cream!

They did, however, give me a pint out of it after I informed them _just_ how pathetic my life was.

So they're not completely heartless.

**7:40 A.M.**

They will, however, give me absolute hell tonight. Of this I am quite sure.

**7:41 A.M.**

Why _me_?!

 **7:42** **A.M.**

Why not . . . Snape?

**7:43 A.M.**

Though he _was_ quite involved in that little incident as well.

So surely I won't be the _only_ one getting tortured.

**7:44 A.M.**

Teehee.

**Friday, September 27, 1991**

**St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

**4:35 P.M.**

I'm dead.

I swear it, I'm dead and I've gone to hell.

There's no other explanation.

Oh well. At least I've regained the power of coherent speech.

. . . Or as coherent as I ever am, anyway.

Which isn't saying much.

**4:39 P.M.**

You're probably wondering what I'm doing at St. Mungo's.

**4:40 P.M.**

Oh, no you're not. You're a notebook. How can you wonder anything at all?!

**4:42 P.M.**

I've gone completely mad.

**4:45 P.M.**

This will surely result in an everlasting house-elf phobia. I'll never be able to face one again.

**4:47 P.M.**

House-elves.

Shudder.

**4:53 P.M.**

Snape looks rather irritated. I guess he doesn't want to be here. He keeps shooting death glares at me, but hasn't actually said anything.

. . . Is Severus Snape actually feeling sorry for me?!

It appears that way.

Which should tell you something. I mean, it takes a lot for Severus Snape to feel sorry for someone.

And I have definitely been through a lot.

**5:02 P.M.**

I suppose I should tell you the whole story.

(Ignoring the fact that 'you' are an inanimate object.)

It all started at about one thirty in the morning on the seventeenth, at which time I was incredibly torn between killing either the Weasley twins or myself. (Both options, you see, were wildly appealing, but I finally chose myself, as Dumbledore would no doubt get a bit shirty with me were I to murder a few of his students.) But _really_. Am I supposed to be able to deal with homework that sings _'First Professor Quirrell and then an iguana | The mere thought really makes you wanna | Cover your ears and somehow escape | Before the arrival of Professor Snape | She's the heartbreaking whore of Hogwarts!'_?!

I am quite thrilled to announce that I plucked up the courage to give them both detentions _and_ take ten points from Gryffindor.

Unfortunately, this did not stop the entirety of the class from laughing their heads off.

And I thought it was bad then. Sigh.

I had no idea.

So I was running a bath in the hopes that it would cheer me up a bit (or that it would be deep enough that I could successfully drown myself in it), all the while entertaining deep and philosophical thoughts along the lines of _'why me, God, why?'_. Basically, the same as usual.

I was so busy drowning in self-pity (but thankfully not bath water - I had worked up the will to live, at the very least) that I didn't happen to notice a certain something until I got out of the tub. (Though in retrospect, I honestly don't know how I could have missed it. I like to think I'm not _that_ daft.)

Upon making my way over to the mirror, I made a highly unpleasant discovery:

I was now a lovely, Gilderoy-Lockhart-Would-Certainly-Approve shade of _lilac_.

Yes, lilac.

As in, my skin - gone is that wonderful fleshy color that I've come to miss most desperately ever since. In replacement -

Lilac.

Envision, if you will, a perpetually-frazzled-looking woman standing at an unimpressive five foot three with what appears to be a chunk of swamp dyed auburn for hair. Not exactly a Veela to begin with. But then throw in a very lilac complexion, and you have something that makes a troll look like the epitome of perfect beauty.

Oh, and this was only the beginning.

So after shrieking a few times and attempting to charm my skin back to its original state, I finally decided that it wasn't going to work and it would probably have disappeared by morning, anyway. (I had used Muggle bubble bath, and apparently there are traces of magic in the Hogwarts water, and they can have negative reactions when combined with Muggle products.)

Feeling like I should have drowned myself in the bath when I had the chance, I climbed into bed-

And felt the most terrible, excruciating pain ever.

You know that sitcom, I Dream of Jeannie? (Of course you don't. You're a notebook. But humor me - I'm in physical and mental distress.) Well, I distinctly remember watching one episode with my sister in which Jeannie turned Major Nelson's bed into a bed of nails.

I _laughed_ when that happened. _Laughed_.

I have since discovered that it is not a laughing matter.

As a matter of fact, it hurts like _hell_.

So I grabbed a blanket and curled up on the floor and did not sleep at all; instead, I was purple and in an extreme amount of pain as I wondered who on Earth would do this to me. I concluded that it wasn't Snape, as extremely obscure torture isn't quite his style - he's more into the whole verbal-insulting-to-the-point-of-no-return thing. It was more Weasley twins, but they wouldn't be that cruel about a few measly detentions, would they?

And so it came to be that I had an enemy - someone out there who wanted to see me suffer, who laughed at my excruciating pain.

And let me tell you, I considered _everyone_ as a potential suspect. (Really. Everyone. Even down to Hagrid's dog, Fang. I don't like the way that thing looks at me.) Some may call me paranoid, but I think my reasoning was utterly justified. I was, after all, purple, mind you, and that's hardly a thing to be taken lightly. I spent a particularly long time musing over Quirrell, as he had the third largest amount of evidence, being that his turban was a similar shade to my skin. (Okay, not exactly lock - 'em - in - Azkaban - for - a - life - sentence proof, but I was desperate. What a surprise, as it's me and such.)

But then I had to stop and get ahold of myself.

I mean . . . Quirrell? The man is afraid of eating utensils. (Sad, but true. Hooch was brandishing a fork while talking to emphasize a point, and the guy practically went into convulsions.) Oh, yes, I'm sure that he's some dark wizard intent upon making my life hell before aiding You-Know-Who to his glorious return.

Hah. Right.

That's plausible.

(Note my sarcasm. Or I would ask you to, if you weren't a notebook.)

And so I there I was: pained, purple, and with no idea as to who my attacker could be. At the time, I didn't even consider the true culprits. After all, who would even begin to suspect . . . house elves?

**5:14 P.M.**

Sorry.

Shuddering fit.

So anyhow, as you, the inanimate notebook, can clearly see, I was in quite the predicament. I also had that pesky problem where I was supposed to be around other people, so I didn't starve to death. There was also the whole teaching dilemma.

After many horrifying mental pictures, in all of which Snape was laughing himself stupid, I determined that it simply couldn't be done. I couldn't show my fuchsia face.

. . . All right, it wasn't fuchsia. It was, as I've already made quite clear, a lavender-y violet sort of shade which I fear shall send me back into St. Mungo's if I ever set eyes on it again. But I couldn't resist a bit of alliteration.

And so my plan for the first hour or so was to sit around in my quarters until I eventually withered and died. (Not the most brilliant thing I could've come up with, I suppose, but it had a certain element of Shakespearean tragedy to it.)

Then I started getting hungry.

And, because I'm just bright and intelligent in this manner, the only edible thing I happened to have in my room was a three-year-old box of Cockroach Clusters that Snape gave me for Valentine's Day in what he apparently thought was a very wry and witty gesture.

Hardly.

(Don't ask why I kept them. I honestly don't know. Besides, I don't want to waste a ridiculous amount of ink and five pages or so proclaiming exactly how much I'm not in love with him.)

But by the time noon had rolled around, those Cockroach Clusters were looking pretty tasty.

. . . Do people ever actually _eat_ Cockroach Clusters?

I mean, I suppose someone somewhere out there has to, because otherwise they wouldn't keep making them, right?

And yet I certainly haven't met anyone who could stomach them, besides an old hag that I ran into on a third year Hogsmeade trip inside of Honeydukes.

Cockroach Clusters: considered a delicacy by hags everywhere.

. . . Hence Snape's little gift.

I hate him.

So around twelve thirty, I was sitting there having a staring contest with the Cockroach Clusters, torn between starving to death and eating them, therefore cementing my hag status in society.

And then someone knocked at the door.

Naturally, the first person I thought of was Snape.

. . . Not because I'm eerily obsessed with him, or anything. Just because he has a history of stopping by my quarters at thoroughly inopportune moments.

And so I shouted (or attempted to shout - I was so weakened by hunger and emotional distress that it came out more like a slightly forceful wheeze), "Go away, Snape! I'm hardly in the mood!"

Be dazzled by my fabulous word choice.

I mean, really. Feel free. Go ahead.

Victoria sure was.

Because, just my luck, it was her and not one greasy potions master.

She swung open the door with this awful, infuriating smile on her face and asked, "I hope I'm not . . . interrupting any plans you've made, Auriga."

I'd covered myself with a blanket in the nick of time, so my death glare and bitter reply of, "Sod off. You've got a sick mind." didn't exactly have that much influence on her.

Instead, she just laughed. "You know, you really are quite the promiscuous one."

Which was, of course, the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard, considering I've slept with one person and am quite possibly the least promiscuous thirty-one year old on the planet.

I didn't bother to dignify this ludicrous statement with a reply, and instead flung myself on my bed (which had, thankfully, grown devoid of nails) and hid under a few more blankets. Better safe than sorry, after all.

"Is it true, what they're saying about the house-elf?" Victoria persisted, completely oblivious to the fact that I was seconds away from poisoning myself with an expired Cockroach Cluster.

She really is horribly insensitive sometimes.

"No, of course not!" I snapped through the two sheets, three blankets, two comforters, and one quilt I'd taken refuge under. (I have a tendency to compulsively buy bedding. So sue me. It certainly comes in handy, after all. Look at the situation I was in! I don't know what I'd have done without my vast collection.)

"Ohh, good," Victoria continued, still utterly clueless. "'Cause I'm as open-minded as the next girl, but even I was going to say that you'd taken 'kinky' a little too far-"

"Victoria!" I shrieked, feeling very much in the mood for an Unforgivable or two. "Just don't!"

She chose that moment to ask exactly why I was covered in blankets.

Which, of course, proved to be a very difficult question to answer. How does one go about explaining that they've somehow been mysteriously turned purple? Do you attempt to use a subtle approach, so the person's not scared out of their wits when they see you, or do you just tell them straight off?

Well, since both _'Victoria, you know how sometimes people set out to make your life hell . . .'_ and _'I'm purple'_ sounded a bit stupid, I decided not to say anything at all. Instead, I merely pulled away the blankets and allowed her to bask in my grape-like glory.

She stared at me in silence for a minute (I really couldn't blame her) before promptly asking, "Is this some weird side-effect to a new STD, or something?"

If anyone needs to get their mind out of the gutter, it's her.

I mean, Arithmancy teachers are supposed to be dull and boring and do things like count their own socks for fun. And then alphabetically arrange them. (I'm not sure that this is possible, but Arithmancy professors are supposed to make it possible. That's the point.) I know that _my_ Arithmancy professor didn't think about sex all the time, that's for sure.

. . . Or at least I really, really hope not.

Ew. Bad. Bad mental images. Have already suffered an eternally-scarring amount of psychological distress; do not need the thought of Professor Wigglewamph doing . . . ugggh, bad.

Anyway, back to slightly less distressing topics-

So then I felt compelled to inform her that someone was setting out to drive me insane, that no one was safe, and that I didn't dare leave my quarters because who knew if I'd ever be able to come back again? There was someone with a dark and twisted mind out there, and they very well may want me dead.

"Besides," Victoria had replied to this, snickering, "You don't want Snape to see you with purple skin."

Wench.

Luckily, she's got at least a bit of a heart amongst all that wenchiness, and she gave me all of her Muggle concealer. I mixed this with mine and managed to cover my face.

. . . Unfortunately, her skin's a few shades darker than mine, so I now had a strange fleshy-camouflage look going on that wasn't exactly flattering.

At all.

But on the bright side, I was no longer the color of one of Gilderoy Lockhart's carefully chosen outfits.

And that had to count for something, right?

So, clothed in a particularly huge set of robes and a cloak (I wasn't about to let anyone see my face unless absolutely necessary), I set off to the Great Hall for a lunch that I figured I really did deserve. Victoria couldn't stop snickering, and even made some comment that was apparently supposed to be funny about my looking like a dwarf Dementor. Some friend she is.

Luckily, lunch was almost over and most of the students had cleared out, but Neville Longbottom managed to let out a small squeak and fall onto the floor when he saw me. Not exactly the most flattering response I've gotten from a man, but definitely not the worst.

. . . I am so pathetic.

Most of the teachers had gone as well, but Quirrell was still hanging around, clutching that damned iguana whom I'm still set upon pressing sexual assault charges against. When he saw me, he started stammering some nonsense about dark forces and dropped Herman into the mashed potatoes.

Mwahaha.

Comeuppance is a beautiful thing.

So I ate enough of everything to about double my weight (sans mashed potatoes), careful not to let my sleeves slide up enough to reveal the fact that my hands were slightly purple. Victoria rather laughingly told me she was sorry and that she hoped I'd find a solution for my little dilemma (I really doubt she meant a word. Hmph.), and I set back off for my quarters.

I was perfectly content with the prospect of curling up in bed and sleeping until my lesson that night (one perk of teaching in pitch black - the students can't tell if your skin has suffered a slightly conspicuous color change), but fate had other things in store for me. Lying on my pillow waiting for me, terrifying in its nondescript, was a folded piece of parchment.

I reached for it with shaking hands, fearful as to what horrors its unfurling might release . . .

Oh, dear. This is sounding a bit like a suspense novel, isn't it?

It's all this hospital air - making me a bit batty.

Anyway, basically, there was a note scribbled in some sort of red substance proclaiming the following:

**_'THERE SHALL BE NO MERCY.'_ **

I suppose it's safe to say that I was slightly unnerved.

. . . All right, perhaps that's a bit of an understatement. I actually screamed, flung the note across the room, ran over, stamped on it repeatedly, and then caught it on fire with a few rogue wand sparks.

But _really_! I was terrified! It was quite clear that my life was in jeopardy; I think I was allowed to be the slightest bit dramatic.

Or . . . really dramatic.

Either worked.

And it was then that Snape chose to make his presence known by clearing his throat.

. . . I don't think that _'eh ehm!'_ is exactly meant to strike fear into the hearts of millions, but I was already on edge! Sudden noises and I weren't exactly skipping along hand-in-hand, which I think is perfectly understandable.

Snape, however, seemed to find it strange when I shrieked and leapt about eight feet into the air before brandishing my wand and announcing, "Come near me and I'll kill you!"

Who knows what goes on in his mind, really.

Doesn't spend enough time with other people. It's turned him funny.

But anyway, back to my tale of agony and distress.

"I assure you, Sinistra, I have no intention of coming near you, alluring as the prospect undoubtedly is to your house-elf paramour," he replied in that awful, silky-smooth voice that has this unstoppable gift for making me feel idiotic.

. . . Well, all right, more idiotic than usual.

And then-

"Are you perhaps aware, Auriga, that your skin tone happens to consist of three different shades at the moment?"

Damn him and his observation skills.

"I don't know what you mean," I returned as loftily as I could. (Which, unfortunately, wasn't all that impressive.)

"A mirror may be convenient at the moment," Snape continued smoothly. "You see, not only is there ivory, but also a rather bold tan, and, to top it off, a bit of purple."

"Purple?" I repeated, trying very desperately to sound as though the mere notion was crazy.

"Yes," he hissed in this awful snakelike way that was eerily Slytherin-esque. (Hence his . . . Slytherin-ness, I suppose.) "Purple."

"And I suppose you think that's funny?" I challenged, deciding arguing with him wasn't gonna get me anywhere.

"I won't deny that the situation holds rich comic potential," he returned, sneering a little, "Though at the moment, I'm more curious as to finding out how, exactly, this happened."

A bit of advice to you, even though you _are_ a notebook and inanimate and yada yada blah blah-

Never, under any circumstances, pour your heart out to Severus Snape.

It just isn't wise.

It doesn't matter if you're emotionally distraught and facing potential death. It doesn't matter if your only confidant chose to laugh hysterically at your predicament. It doesn't matter if you're secretly infatuated with him, and if word's gone 'round that you're Hogwarts' resident hussy, and if you've been sexually assaulted by both a house elf _and_ an iguana within the same week. It doesn't even matter if you're purple, for Merlin's sake. Just don't do it.

I did.

And no one has suffered like I have suffered.

"You want to know how this happened? Do you _really_ want to know, Severus Snape? Well, I'll tell you! Someone's out to get me! Yes, that's right! Someone in this very castle wants to steal every shred of my sanity and stomp on it! And so what do they do? They curse my bathwater so it turns my skin purple and torture me with beds of nails and leave me threatening notes written in blood! And what did I do to deserve this? Nothing! I mean, yes, I may have thrown a coffee mug or two at you! I may have handed out a few detentions, and scared a few defenseless first years, and led on a lovestruck house-elf so that I could sneak into your quarters, but that's not my fault! You wanna know who all of that comes back to? Well, I'll tell you who it all comes back to - you, that's who! You're driving me _crazy_ , you unbearable bastard! You're mean and callous and sardonic and you have no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but the stars and the obsession and the journal entries and _why won't you just get out of my head_?! What did I ever do to you? _What_?! I mean, yeah, I threw a coffee mug. I admit it! I threw the blasted coffee mug! But does that truly mean that I deserve this torment?"

At this point, I had to stop, 'cause I'd delivered the entire speech with very little breath and now felt a bit smothered, and didn't want to add blue to make a fourth skin color.

And then it dawned on me what I had said.

To Snape.

Whoops. Big whoops.

In response, he stared at me. And stared at me. And stared at me some more.

And then the sneer surfaced.

"Auriga, touched as I am by your maudlin lamentations, I'm afraid I don't want to spend another minute in your presence, as you are truly the most psychologically unhinged creature I have ever met." A pause. "Including the Dark Lord."

And then he was gone, with a bunch of scowling and swishing black robes and bat comparisons involved.

Understandably, I was a bit . . . stressed. I'd just accidentally as good as told Snape that I fancied him, I was purple, I was tired, and there was still that unfortunate going - to - be - murdered - when - I - least - expected - it problem.

And so just as I was sinking into bed looking forward to a good cry and a Gilderoy Lockhart-reading fest . . . they invaded.

Completely silently, might I add. (Though I suppose that's part of the whole house-elf thing, so as not to bug your rich and snooty masters.)

All of a sudden, they were just there.

House-elves, at least twenty of them, all sporting expressions of rage as identical as their tea towel uniforms. The lead one held a feather duster as though it were a sword, and proclaimed in a way that was quite formidable considering he was the size of a small child, "We is to avenge the evils Miss has done!"

To which I could only reply, very blankly, "What?"

I do wish now that I'd known when I'd broken Wimmy's heart that house-elves are unnaturally loyal creatures. Apparently, this sense of loyalty is supposed to apply only to their masters, but when a large number of them work together for an extended amount of time, the devotion spreads to their fellow elves as well.

Which, basically, was bad news for poor me.

"You is breaking Wimmy's heart, Miss!" the elf squeaked. "He is your faithful house-elf, Miss, and you is lying to him!"

I got by then that I was supposed to be scared of them.

And I kind of was. You know, just a bit.

. . . All right, I was absolutely terrified. But really, a pissed off house elf with a feather duster is far more frightening in person than it sounds on paper.

Honestly.

And then the house-elves were closing in on me, everywhere, with their huge eyes surrounding me and their high, squeaky voices echoing through the room and my head, and I could see Wimmy's heartbroken face in my mind - _'Miss Auriga Miss! Wimmy was thinking we is having something between us! Wimmy was_ wrong _!'_ \- and then I did the only thing that someone in my position _could_ do-

I passed out.

The next time I woke up, everything passed in a strange sort of blur: I can vaguely remember the hospital wing and grabbing Madam Pomfrey by the collar and informing Dumbledore that she was _'one of them'_.

. . . Oh, God. I'm fired. _So_ fired, on so many different levels. I must be. I mean, Albus no doubt thinks I'm a complete nutter.

I mean, he's not the sanest man to begin with, but accusing the nurse of being a house-elf in disguise is a bit eccentric, even for him.

And so then I wound up fainting again, and the next thing I knew, I was in a room in St. Mungo's with Snape sitting by my bedside, looking as though he'd rather be eating expired Cockroach Clusters.

Dumbledore's orders, I suspect.

He probably thought the situation held delightful matchmaking potential.

Hah. As if.

. . . Though on the plus side, I'm no longer purple. Yes, I'm back to being all nice and me-colored.

However, on the minus side, I've just been driven nearly insane by house-elves, I opened my heart to Severus Snape, of all people, and there's a very large possibility that I might lose my job.

Suddenly, not being purple doesn't exactly seem a life-illuminating prospect.

I've never really been one to see the glass as half full.

And Snape's just snapped at me to 'stop scribbling in that ridiculous notebook', because apparently I'm free to go.

Back to Hogwarts.

And house-elves.

Shiver.

. . . Maybe I'll ask to stay another night.

**5:39 P.M.**

Ouch. Have just been hit with full-fledged 'defy - me -and - I'll - pickle - your - brain - and - display - it - in - a - jar - in - my - office' Snape sneer.

To Hogwarts it is, then.


	10. Hell Hath No Fury

**Tuesday, October 1, 1991**

**Astronomy Tower**

**9:12 P.M.**

Hmm. Things have been eerily peaceful ever since my little . . . episode with the house-elves.

Is there the faintest chance that I might begin to regain my sanity?

Somehow, I don't think so.

It could be because my eye twitches in a frighteningly Snape-esque fashion every time I say, write, or even think the words 'house-elves.'

Lord help me, I'm turning into Snape.

Whom, coincidentally, I cannot look at anymore. Things were all right while I was still at St. Mungo's and slightly delirious, but then it registered in my mind just what I had said to him.

Why do I do these things to myself?

In any case, eye contact is no longer an option.

Sometimes I'm completely tempted to give up this teaching business and all the humiliation that comes along with it, and just . . . join a circus.

God knows I would make a delightful attraction with my hair.

You know, in the circus freak category.

It's a shame my skin's not still purple.

**Wednesday, October 2, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**7:35 A.M.**

Strange. I can't find my sweater.

**7:37 A.M.**

Snape.

**7:38 A.M.**

The bastard stole my shirt.

**1:16 P.M.**

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

. . . Ehm.

Sorry.

But _really_. How is it, I ask you-the-notebook, is it that one man could be so utterly . . . so completely . . . so totally . . .

Well, all right, I'm a bit too peeved to think of a word right now, but I assure you, it's not anything flattering in the least bit.

So there.

I mean, he acts as though he is a being above us all. Not only is showering beneath him. Oh, no. A girl can't even retrieve her sweater without feeling like a complete dunderhead.

. . . His word choice. Not mine. Believe me, I would never say anything so ridiculous.

And the sad part is, he actually makes it sound rather formidable.

Pleasant, Severus Snape is not.

And he is also a sweater thief.

Yes, you heard me. Or read me. Or . . . let's not go into technicalities. The point is, it's true. Why, exactly, he wanted my shirt was beyond me. I mean, yeah, sure, so we were a little too preoccupied during the whole sexually - assaulted - by - Quirrell's - iguana - and - breaking - the - hearts - of - house - elves - everywhere escapade to pay attention to little things like who left with whose shirt, but didn't he realize after the chaos had died down that something made out of pale pink angora was, in fact, not his? Unless he has some creepy effeminate side that he hides especially well, I can't begin to figure out what the man would want with my sweater. Unless, of course, he's secretly and subconsciously in love with me and wound up absently carrying it back to his quarters with him, and then kind of . . . kept it there, glancing lovingly at it every once in awhile and then growing repeatedly overcome with disgust at himself.

. . .

Ha. Right.

. . .

**1:20 P.M.**

. . . _Sigh_.

**1:21 P.M.**

Ahem.

So anyway, I marched on down into that dungeon, thoroughly intent upon attacking him with full-on 'hell - hath - no - fury - like - a - woman - whose - shirt - has - been - stolen - by - a - slimy - bastard' rage till he collapsed into a twitchshuddersneering mess on the floor for Filch to clean up.

I've got a devious side that's really not allowed to flourish often enough.

Pity.

I so could have been a Slytherin, and a rather good one, at that.

Unfortunately, while suffering aforementioned rush of anger, I managed to forget that he was kind of in the middle of teaching a class.

And let me tell you, there are going to be "Professor Sinistra's really gone crackers" whispers flying around the halls for a few days.

Children are so narrow-minded. It's not as though it's so incurably odd when someone bursts into Snape's dungeon and shouts, " _Damn it,_ you overgrown bat of a bastard, I don't _care_ if you want to keep a little something to remind yourself of our kinky iguana-filled house-elf-heart-breaking rendezvous - give me my bloody sweater back!"

But did the first-year Gryffindors even _consider_ that it might not be what it sounded like? (What did it sound like, anyway? Sweet stars. Children these days are so wretchedly corrupted.)

Of course not.

They just think Professor Sinistra's a great big hussy.

But at least now Snape gets to suffer with me.

Mwahaha.

(Again with the could-have-been-quite-the-diabolical-Slytherin idea.)

Ron Weasley's mouth was hanging open in horror, Harry Potter looked as though he'd much rather be The Boy Who Died, Hermione Granger looked rather scandalized by the idea that two teachers could be so horribly unprofessional (I like her a bit less than usual at the moment), and Neville Longbottom was just plain bewildered.

And Snape, in a very serpentine hiss, responded, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

I (quite understandably, I should think) wanted nothing more than to turn around and run as fast in the other direction as I could, but now that I'd made that rather . . . violent proclamation, I figured I had to stand my ground.

And so I replied, very composedly, "My sweater. You still have it, I believe?"

At this, Ron started snickering until Snape unleashed one of his more lethal glares on him. The poor boy looked positively terrified. (Really, I can't blame him.)

"Perhaps you were taken out of St. Mungo's a bit too early, Sinistra," Snape said smoothly. "I suggest you see Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible."

"Oh, no, Sev, you are _not_ -"

" _Auriga_. Get. Out."

I'm not a coward. Really, I'm not. I mean, I'm no Gryffindor or anything, but I don't exactly cower under the blankets at night because I think the Lethifolds are going to get me. (Er. Or at least not so much anymore.)

But those three words were enough to kind of make me whimper in fear.

Just in case, you know, my students don't think I'm enough of a complete psycho already.

Y'know, I honestly can't wait to teach them tomorrow.

Not.

**Astronomy Tower**

**7:45 P.M.**

All I wanted was to have supper. Is that really _too_ much to ask?

Apparently, because as soon as I sat down, my dear, dear friend Victoria felt just compelled to greet me, sweetly as can be, with, "Why, if it isn't the whore of Hogwarts!"

And then some of the other teachers laughed. _Laughed_. My colleagues find it humorous that some higher being out there is having a regular field day making me miserable.

Even McGonagall's mouth did a bit of a twitchy thing that I strongly suspect was a poorly hidden smile.

Or maybe a smirk.

Good Lord, Snape isn't the only one smirking at me now. I'm a universal cause of smirking worldwide!

My life is a slightly less pleasant version of hell.

**7:51 P.M.**

. . . but, y'know, it doesn't have to be.

I could easily change that. After all, this is my life. I can control my own bloody destiny, thank you very much!

And I say that I'm not going to take any of this nonsense any longer.

Oh, no.

It's time for some change around here.

**7:54 P.M.**

. . . and a bit of a Lockhart-reading fest.

Now, where is Voyages With Vampires?

**7:55 P.M.**

When all of this change takes place, I don't have to give up my Lockhart books, do I?

Because, y'know, this can only go so far.


	11. Reinvention and Romance

** Thursday, October 3, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:03 A.M.**

I have decided, after much extensive consideration, to reinvent myself.

. . . Actually, it just kind of randomly occurred to me in a fit of grief and desperation after the little embarrass-self-in-front-of-innocent-first-years incident.

But does that matter?

Hardly.

Because from here on, things are going to change. I woke up this morning feeling different. Empowered. And slightly hungry; I didn't eat much last night on account of the fact that I was being mocked into oblivion by my fellow faculty members.

But that doesn't matter.

The new Auriga Sinistra does not dwell upon such trivial details.

Oh, no.

Perhaps I should introduce you.

. . . no, wait, damn it.

I don't talk to the notebook as though it's a person anymore.

Right.

**8:06 A.M.**

This is going to be more difficult than I'd anticipated.

**8:07 A.M.**

Ten Easy Steps To Becoming a Less Pathetic Individual

  1. Begin pronouncing your name correctly.



. . . God, that sounds even more pathetic when it's written down. But it's not my fault that I mispronounce my own name! Oh no. That blame can be placed upon my mother. You see, she thought it would be endearing to name me something astronomy related, because my father was an astronomer whose last name happened to be astronomy related. Enough astronomy going on already, if you ask me. But no. Mum stumbled upon 'Auriga' and decided that I absolutely had to be named that, disregarding the fact that Auriga was, in fact, male.

And then she pronounced it 'Aur-i-ga', with the 'I' sounding like 'I' in 'is', when it is in fact 'Aur-eye-gah'. Dad, being the git he is, thought it was cute, and didn't correct her.

Not so surprisingly, the first time I met Severus Snape, he sneered at me – little did I know, it was the first nasty facial contortion of many – and said, in that cold, menacing, and entirely unattractive way he has possessed ever since the age of eleven, "Isn't it 'Aur-eye-gah'?"

I don't know why it is that that man has always been able to make me feel so utterly stupid. I mean, he was mocked ceaselessly all throughout school, and I was relatively ignored. And yet . . . ugh.

. . . which brings us to number two.

  1. Do not allow anyone to make you feel utterly stupid.



Because I am not utterly stupid. I'm aware of that. I mean, yes, I have my moments that are, er, less than sparkling. But I was in Ravenclaw! I am clever, Goddammit! If you don't believe me, ask the bloody Sorting Hat. Yeah. That's right. And . . .

I'm going to stop being oddly defensive now. Honestly.

  1. Avoid potentially compromising situations at all costs.



The new Aur _i_ ga Sinistra is _not_ going down in (Hogwarts, A) history as the floozy of this school. Oh, no. The new Aur _i_ ga Sinistra is classy and refined.

  1. Do not attempt to seduce any of your coworkers.



Because it just doesn't work.

And besides, none of them are proper seduction material, anyway.

  1. Begin treating Wimmy less like an ex-boyfriend that you feel sorry for and more like a house-elf. Because he is one, you know.
  2. Become more well-read. As a Professor – and a former Ravenclaw – you should be able to participate in conversations about today's literature. Will ensure that situations like the one in which Minerva made a reference to Mrs. Dallowayby Virginia Woolf and I thought she was speaking about one of the students' mothers do not take place.
  3. Be respectful and pleasant toward all of your colleagues. Except Snape.



. . . all right, even Snape.

  1. Don't be afraid to punish students accordingly when their behaviour is out of line. Do not burst into sympathetic tears when a Hufflepuff girl is distraught because a Slytherin mocked her hair, so she in turn curses black, cow-like spots all over his body.
  2. Do something about the bushy mess from hell atop your head.



And lastly . . .

  1. Do not harbor any sort of thought about Severus Snape – not loathing or, er, odd, almost affectionate emotions. He is simply one of your colleagues, and you are indifferent toward him. The word 'bastard' is from here on eliminated from your vocabulary.



This is going to work. I know it. Goodbye Auriga, Mighty Whore of Hogwarts. Hello, Aur _i_ ga J. Sinistra, competent, aloof, and sexy Astronomy professor.

**8:16 A.M.**

This is never going to work.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**11:25 A.M.**

Bwahaha! This is ingenious! I am driving Snape insane with my newly competent, aloof, and sexy attitude.

And yes, I know technically we are not going to talk about Snape anymore, but let's just revel in my sweet victory for a moment, shall we?

This morning, he swept viciously down upon me like some overgrown bat monster (it was actually a bit sexy. No! Stop! . . . er.), ready to give me absolute hell. "Auriga, much as I do appreciate your little . . . visits," he said, sneer a-flourishing, "I would advise you not to interrupt my classes again if you'd like to keep from mysteriously dropping dead at dinner one night after sipping your pumpkin juice."

To which I gave him my most pleasant (but aloof, mind you) smile and responded, "Of course, Professor."

Oh, the expression on his face. I wiped the sneer clean off of it, and he just . . . stared, as though he had never heard anything more utterly bewildering.

"Anything else?" I asked lightly.

And the staring kept on going, along with a dazzling reply of, "I . . . Auriga, _what_ . . . Professor . . . you . . . sneer . . . no. Goodbye."

The man actually _said_ 'sneer.' He didn't sneer, just . . . said it.

He is incurably odd.

And I have never felt more empowered. Whatever strange spell he used to have over me is history. Hah!

And so concludes my victory entry. When I return, there will be no more of this talk of Snape. Honestly. The man might as well be dead to me.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**12:05 A.M.**

Good God, I'm in love with him.

Which is rather unexpected. I mean, never in a million years did I think that I would just walk into the Great Hall and . . . but . . . oh, he's so charming and clever and perfect.

 _Sigh_.

After all of this nonsense with Snape, it's wonderful to finally just be able to bask in the loveliness of it all. It's made all of the agony worth it, without a doubt.

Yes, it's official.

I am in love with Algernon Brightmann.

**12:08 P.M.**

I suppose I should be more coherent on the subject, shouldn't I?

Well, I simply stepped into the Great Hall for lunch, and there he was. He's a friend of Dumbledore's, and quite rich. His family owns the Gladrags chain, and he's here for awhile to discuss a new design of Quidditch robes for the house team that Dumbledore is considering, or something like that. There's really no point in relaying the pointless little details.

The gist of it is, he was sitting at the table speaking to Dumbledore, and I was a bit flustered, but didn't really say anything of it. I simply slipped into the seat between him and Snape, and then . . .

He said hello to me.

Which, I suppose, isn't entirely miraculous. I have been said hello to before in my life, believe it or not.

So I said hello back, trying all the while to remember that I was, in fact, Aur _i_ ga J. Sinistra, competent, aloof, and sexy Astronomy professor. And instead of turning around and going back to his conversation with Dumbledore, he kept talking to me. It was the most beautiful conversation I've ever had in my entire life, and went something like this:

Him: "Hello, there."

Me: (prolonged pause while remembering competent, aloof, and sexy spiel) ". . . oh. Er. Hi."

Him: "Algernon Brightmann. What's your name?"

Me: "Aur _i_ ga Sinistra."

(I believe I deserve points for pronouncing it correctly.)

Him: "Enchanté, Miss Sinistra."

Snape on the other side of me: Sudden coughing fit.

Me: (a bit of idiotic giggling before remembering competent, aloof, etc) "It's lovely to meet you."

Him: "And you. You teach here, I presume?"

Me: "Yes, Astronomy."

Him: "Ahhh, a favourite subject of mine. I love the stars. There's something incredibly romantic about the night sky."

Me: "I've always thought so, yes."

Him: "I'd love to sit in on one of your classes sometime. If you'd been my teacher while I was at school, I'd have certainly paid more attention." (Insert knee-weakening, heart-melting, pulse-racing grin that nearly caused me to faint dead away in my chair.)

Me: "Feel free to."

Him: "I certainly shall."

And then there was this lovely pause where we sort of smiled at one another, which was convenient, as it gave me time to mentally design the bridesmaids' dresses really quickly.

Him: "So, Aur _i_ ga-"

Snape on the other side of me: "I believe you have yet to master the pronunciation of her name, Brightmann."

At which point I was thinking mature and professional thoughts along the lines of, _Go off and choke on your own bile, you dungeon-dwelling moron-bastard-prat-bastard._

And I believe I certainly deserve credit for not saying it aloud.

Him: "Really? (to me) I'm sorry – did I mispronounce—"

Me: "No! Not at all."

Him: "Ah, all right then. (to Snape) I'd thought it was Aur _i_ ga-"

Snape: (positively viciously – I'm surprised we all made it out of there alive. Honestly, the man is mad) "No. If you are referring to the constellation Auriga, to which the star Sinistra belongs, then it is pronounced Aur-eye-gah. However, if you are referring to the starry-eyed, disagreeable, and generally inept Astronomy professor here at this school, it is Aur-i-ga."

And then he fixed me with this _look_ that just sent shivers all up and down my spine.

. . . oh, not like _that_.

I don't think.

I mean, not like that! It was just . . . intense. And a bit scary, really. A lot scary. Nothing else. Purely frightening, that look. Grr. Hate Snape. Bastard.

And then he nodded very curtly and stormed off, probably off to the dungeons to rub some extra grease into his hair or whatever he does for fun.

And so Algernon turned and stared at me, looking positively bewildered.

And very, very attractive.

_Sigh._

Ehm, anyway. So, naturally, I felt as though I owed him some sort of explanation, as it is never pleasant when Severus Snape has a mini-psychotic attack on you. I really would know.

So I said the first thing that came to mind, which, er, happened to be, "Severus Snape. He's the Potions master, and a bit, um . . . delicate, as of late."

"Delicate?" Algernon repeated confusedly.

"Oh, yes," I said with a sad nod. "You see, we used to have a bit of a, er, relationship, he and I, if you know what I mean. But he really was completely suffocating with his affection, so I broke it off."

"Really?"

"Yes. Two years ago."

" _Really_?"

"Yes, yes," I said, sighing tragically. "He's having a bit of trouble letting go. He keeps telling me that I'm his soul mate, the love of his life . . . and of course, I feel just terribly for breaking his heart like this, but I figure love can't be forced."

"Of course not," Algernon said, staring at the door where Snape had disappeared in a fit of bastardly rage a few moments before. "The poor bloke . . ."

I nodded wistfully. "I try to be nice to him when I see him, of course. No need to torture him, after all I've put him through . . ."

"That's good of you," Algernon said, and gave me yet another one of those smiles, only this time it was so swoon-inducing that I had to grab onto the table to avoid a very painful collision with the floor. "So, I suppose you're a bit of a heartbreaker."

And then my lovely dreams of bridesmaid dresses and the perfect bouquet (I was currently considering a mix of white and pink roses – now I'm thinking maybe white and red instead, and of course I'd have to throw a bit of baby's breath in the mix . . .) fizzled and died temporarily.

"No, no, not at all . . . it was just that once—"

"I'd be willing to test that theory," he said, with this . . . oh, he's perfect. So handsome. His eyes are so warm and brown and they kind of sparkle, and . . . oooohhhh.

**12:22 P.M.**

Don't mind me.

I just, uh, kind of fell off the bed.

Damn it.

**12:23 P.M.**

Ahem. Anyhow.

And then Dumbledore called him over, wanting to introduce him to Professor Flitwick and Victoria, so he said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Auriga."

I managed to put together a dazed "And you."

And then he _kissed my hand_. He kissed my hand! He kissed my hand, he kissed my hand. I would never wash that hand again, except afterward when I was staring lovingly after him, I managed to spill the pitcher of pumpkin juice all over myself. Therefore, my hand has been washed, but still. _Sigh._

And he said, "You don't mind if I stop in on one of your lessons tonight?"

I told him no, so he gave me one last smile and then wandered off. And I spilled the pumpkin juice all over myself.

But that last part aside, _oh_ , it was the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me. It is truly meant to be. Written in the stars.

Wait. Scratch that. Not written in the stars, because written in the stars never really does go well.

This will certainly be a million times better than that.

I have decided on white and yellow roses.

. . . or are roses too formal? Maybe daisies? I've always liked daisies. Or carnations . . .

Of course, I can't rush into wedding plans. After all, this situation could present a few problems. For one, if Snape finds out that little, er, white lie I made up about him on the spur of the moment (and I honestly don't know why that was the first thing that came to me – you'd think that I was subconsciously in love with him. Which I am certainly not. Not when I am consciously in love with . . . Algernon. _Sigh._ ), I am going to experience pain on levels I probably haven't imagined. And, even more importantly—

What do I wear to teach my lesson tonight?


	12. Unintentional Verbal Sexual Harassment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some tragically pre-#MeToo era energy up in this chapter, y'all.

**Friday, October 4, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:30 A.M.**

_Sigh_.

I am afraid I cannot elaborate beyond that.

**1:32 A.M.**

. . . All right, yes I can.

I was attempting to be the lovestruck yet charmingly aloof ingenue-type creature, but I can't resist. I have to write it out in big capital letters and then stare adoringly.

I LOVE ALGERNON BRIGHTMANN.

I honestly, truly do.

And I do realize that I'm acting like a fifteen year old.

I'm going to take a moment to compose myself now.

**1:34 A.M.**

I am composed.

**1:35 A.M.**

The composure seems to have left me.

But it lasted for at least thirty seconds there, so I think I should get a bit of credit for that.

But honestly . . . he's so . . .

 _Sigh_.

**1:37 A.M.**

_Sigh_.

**1:38 A.M.**

_Siiiigh._

**1:39 A.M.**

All right. I'll stop now, honestly.

_(Sigh.)_

So, I suppose I should give you (yes, you, the Mighty Inanimate Notebook) a summary of the evening.

Victoria and I spent about three quarters of an hour picking out the perfect outfit. Something helplessly sexy, yet professional - that way, I could look positively stunning _and_ give off the impression that I always looked positively stunning. Victoria came up with that one - she's quite clever in that respect.

And yes, well, I'm not sure that I would usually wear a sleeveless black dress with a sparkly burgundy shawl to teach, but does Algernon know that?

I think _not_.

So half past eleven rolled 'round and I made my way out off to the Astronomy Tower. This part, I'll admit, could have gone better.

For one thing, I'm not exactly skilled when it comes to walking in heels. Don't get me wrong - I've certainly improved over the years. I mean, you don't see me crashing into my poor Great Auntie Agnes anymore in a manner that might bring about, I don't know, a three-month-long coma or something of the like, do you?

Precisely.

I've chosen to leave that in the past.

But I suppose I'm still a bit . . . unsteady.

And the damned unsteadiness has probably convinced Severus Snape that I am madly in love with him. (Hah! He wishes, I bet. Or not.)

Fate hates me. That much has been established already. The Big Bloke Upstairs no doubt laughs himself stupid trying to invent new ways to torture me. And ever-so-luckily, I turned a corner, lost my balance, and abruptly fell into . . . well, who else would it be? Certainly not Victoria, who might make fun of me a bit but wouldn't hold it against me. Not Professor Sprout or Madam Pomfrey, as both of them would be completely nice about the whole thing. Not Professor McGonagall or Professor Kettleburn. Not even Quirrell, which I suppose would be, admittedly, slightly embarrassing.

But oh no.

Severus Snape. Mr. Dark, Gaunt, and Greasy. The sole bane of my existence.

Well . . .

Maybe not the _sole_ bane.

But the prominent one, no doubt.

Picture it-

One moment I'm strolling along, feeling confident and posh and surprisingly stunning, considering that tragic affliction I have of being me and all, and then the next, I am clinging to Severus Snape and staring up into his black and demonic eyes that certainly are not sexy in any way.

And while we're on that particular subject, I feel compelled to share that the situation in general was not sexy in any way.

Nope.

Detestable bastard.

(Hah!)

He kind of stared at me, aghast, for a moment, as though I were a sign of the Apocalypse, or a Gryffindor student, or Destiny du Maurier, and then his left eye started twitching, but barely perceptively. It was a bit impressive - I wonder if he's been getting help for that.

And then, inevitably, he began to speak.

"Auriga," he said, in this low and very dangerous voice ( _so_ not sexy), "What are you doing?"

To which I replied - trying to be nonchalant, but failing rather miserably as I was somehow still clinging to him - "Going to teach. Not that it's any concern of yours."

"Ah, I see," he said, all smoothly (not to mention infuriatingly). "And do you _usually_ . . . go to teach-" _(Sneer.)_ "-in a little black dress and shoes that cause you to be even more of an incompetent death trap than usual?"

At which point I was rather annoyed. I mean, more so. And so I kind of exploded at him. (Which, naturally, he deserves. Perpetually.) "Oh, what do you care? Get off of me!"

And then I pushed him with all my might. Which, yes, caused him to move approximately two inches, but I'm pretty sure it got the fact that I passionately HATE HIM across.

To which he replied - prepare yourself, notebook, because I rather wish I'd had time to-

"Believe me, Sinistra, if I were _on_ you, you wouldn't be making that request."

I have honestly never been more embarrassed in my entire life. Honestly. And considering this is _my life_ , that's saying something.

But really. I just felt my face go entirely red and my mouth drop open, and I think I may have nearly crashed down to the floor again on account of the fact that my feet had gone so unstable.

Luckily, I was not the only thoroughly shocked one. Snape looked surprised beyond belief that he'd said it, and immediately the eye-twitch was back with flourish. He wasn't even sneering - just twitching and staring blankly as though he'd just spilled his deepest, darkest secret out to the entire world.

And then he said, in a very rushed sort of way, "I have to go."

I, quite naturally, replied, "Me too," and then we ran off in separate directions.

Well, we didn't _run_ off, exactly. I kind of hobbled as quickly as I could without breaking an ankle, and he swept off in his signature big bad bat sort of way.

That was truly a bizarre happening. I almost wonder if I made it up, except I don't understand why I _would_. I'm not sure that I'm that mental.

I think I may have been sexually harassed - verbally, yes, but sexually harassed nonetheless - by Severus Snape. _Unintentionally_. Which almost makes me think that perhaps he's a bit interested in me.

But honestly, I don't care. Because . . .

 _Algernon_.

Ooh, he's _wonderful_ , and would never, ever take part in unintentional verbal sexual harassment. On the contrary . . .

He brought me a _rose_.

A single red rose.

No man has ever done that for me. No house elf has ever even done that for me. It was so incredibly romantic, I actually thought I might cry.

Er. Perhaps I actually did a little, while I was walking around to monitor the first year Slytherins' progress on their star charts. And then that little brat Malfoy _had_ to ask in that loud, drawling voice of his, "Professor, are you _crying_?"  
Mini-bastard.

I told him that my eyes were simply watering because he had managed to fling a drop of ink into my eye and then gave him three nights of detention. Mwahaha. And they say that only Snape is hideously unfair.

Of course, Malfoy's reply to this was, "My father will be hearing about this!"

So now I'm to face the wrath of Lucius Malfoy, which will no doubt be the death of me. He was a few years ahead of me at Hogwarts, and I still haven't forgotten the time he nearly killed Peter Pettigrew for stepping on his copy of Witches Gone Wild: a Magazine for Wizards.

Though maybe he should have. I mean, it would've been a more pleasant way to go than how Sirius Black did him off.

Ugh. Are all men bastards in one way or another? I'm beginning to suspect it. But I'm not sure anyone's as much of a bastard as Sirius Black. I actually used to fancy him a bit back at school. It makes me sick to think about it now.

But anyway. I shouldn't be thinking about unpleasant things, on account of the fact that I have Algernon.

He showed up to class a few minutes after I did and managed to make my knees so utterly weak that I accidentally fell onto Pansy Parkinson. Luckily, I don't think he saw. And he's so _charming_. Ohhhh . . . _sigh_.

He gave me this wonderful smile and said, "Thank you for letting me join you this evening."

To which I replied, "No problem," and then promptly realized that I sounded like a twelve year old.

And then he handed me the rose, and I kind of choked out directions to the class before taking a moment to . . . get a bit emotional.

While the kids were working (or throwing spare bits of parchment around the classroom, in Malfoy's case. He is a dazzlingly mature young man), Algernon and I stood in the corner and talked for a bit. He told me a bit about how he'd always loved Astronomy, and then said that I looked, and I quote, gorgeous. I'm not sure anyone's ever told me that before. Even my own mother, bless her soul, could never quite overlook the fact that I am roughly the size of Flitwick (all right, give or . . . give a few feet) with the frizziest hair known to mankind.

But Algernon . . . _sigh_.

And then when Malfoy continued with the throwing of the parchment, Algernon kind of snapped at him, but in a thoroughly pleasant sort of way so that Malfoy couldn't threaten to sic his father on anyone.

Algernon Brightmann, you are perfect, I love you, and _we are going out to dinner in Hogsmeade tomorrow night._

He asked me. Oh, it was wonderful! And so tomorrow, we'll dine at The Golden Watch at seven thirty.

Oh, I still can't fully believe it. I have finally found the perfect man, and he does not twitch, shudder, or sneer.

**2:02 A.M.**

. . . But I wore my only nice dress tonight.

_Damn it._

**Saturday, October 5, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**11:45 P.M.**

_Sigh!_

Dinner was perfect! I got more flowers - a dozen pink roses tonight - and he took my hand over the table. Oh! Candlelight, wonderful food, the most handsome date possible . . .

I think I may be on my way to having a boyfriend.

_Sigh!_

**Tuesday, October 8, 1991**

**Teachers' Lounge**

**12:03 P.M.**

_Sigh!_

**Thursday, October 10, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**7:49 A.M.**

Last night during the lesson, Hermione Granger told me that I seemed especially cheerful.

I couldn't help but giggle and reply that love could do that to a person.

Hermione frowned, and I think she was going to inquire as to whether it was appropriate for teachers to harbor romantic relationships, or something along those lines, but she was cut off by Ron Weasley when he started making over-dramatic gagging noises.

**Monday, October 14, 1991**

**Teachers' Lounge**

**12:24 P.M.**

Teeheehee! Algernon and I just had coffee together during lunch break. He said I was, I quote, ravishing, and then pushed my glasses up a little.

Snape, who happened to be there at the time, threw his coffee mug into the sink so hard that it shattered.

 _Honestly._ Is someone a bit violent?

**Friday, October 18, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:19 P.M.**

Tonight at dinner, Albus pointed out that Algernon has seemed to have prolonged his stay quite extensively.

And you want to know why that is?

Me! Me! Me!

The man loves me!

**Friday, October 25, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**10:02 P.M.**

My goodness - has it really been a week since I last wrote?

I suppose I've just been busy, what with teaching, and my boyfriend, and all.

(Boyfriend! Wheee!)

You know what this means, don't you, notebook? Don't you? I've actually gone a week without so much as touching you. Clearly, I have done what seemed apparently impossible.

I have gotten myself a life.

**10:05 P.M.**

In other news, Snape seems particularly nasty as of late.

I wonder why.


	13. Suspicion and Sweet Sorrow

** Tuesday, October 29, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**3:02 P.M.**

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Honestly, I do get what Juliet was going on about now. Well, yes, okay, I _always_ got it – I'm not that much of an idiot; I _was_ in Ravenclaw, mind – but now I'm experiencing it. And I haven't even got the 'say goodnight 'till it be morrow' option!

Algernon just left.

It's not as though we won't still see one another, of course. It's just that he had to get back to work – some disaster with mothers complaining about some rather suggestive robes for teenage witches that were released last month (he got a Howler at breakfast this morning and everything; honestly, haven't they got anything better to do?). And, well, naturally, I'm forced to stay here, educating young minds and yada yada blah blah. Of course, I _could_ go stay in Diagon Alley with him, catching glimpses of the glamorous world of robe-design (actually, he's told me it's a bit vicious – who'd have thought?) if only it weren't for the fact that I'm rather required to teach throughout the entire school year.

Damn it.

I would argue to Dumbledore that too much Astronomy has proven hazardous to one's social skills – case in point? Yours truly – except somehow I doubt he would listen.

Ridiculous old man. He probably doesn't understand the pains of being separated from your one and only true love.

Which I most certainly _am_.

It's dreadful! I miss him already! Now that he's gone, the only way I'll ever get flowers is if Wimmy decides to forgive me for my promiscuous ways, and Snape will go back to mocking me eternally, _and_ if I give up with all that troublesome makeup business, everyone will know that I was only doing it to impress a man! How thoroughly pathetic is that?

. . . But honestly. I'm tired of nearly poking my eyes out every morning. It's just a risk I'm not quite willing to take unless I have proper motivation.

Namely Algernon.

Oh, how am I going to survive?

**3:12 P.M.**

Don't look at me like that. You may think I'm being silly and melodramatic, but you don't understand! You're just a notebook and certainly haven't experienced true and everlasting love in any form!

**3:14 P.M.**

. . . Or at least, I really quite hope you haven't.

**3:15 P.M.**

Shudder.

**3:16 P.M.**

Right. I suppose I'll just go wander the halls, reveling in the sweet sorrow of it all.

It seems somehow appropriate.

**3:46 P.M.**

I honestly think I am going mad with grief.

Because Severus Snape would never, ever partake in anything that even vaguely resembled a victory dance.

Maybe the floor was covered in pushpins and he had to jump up and down manically to avoid severe and possibly permanent damage to his feet.

But that does not begin to explain why he was moving his arms. Or wearing an expression of what was unmistakably triumph.

Perhaps he is even more troubled than I.

**3:49 P.M.**

. . . All right, I admit it. Snape wouldn't dance. He simply wouldn't. This is all in my head. I've gone crazy. I walked by and glanced into his room – the door was slightly ajar – and he was probably just standing and practicing his sneers in front of the mirror, or something. (The fact that he can even stand to look at his reflection makes me think that perhaps the Sorting Hat should have put him into Gryffindor. Yes, that's right. Hah! Who's to say I'm not skilled when it comes to witty and scathing comments?)

But the point is that I'm going mad. Hallucinating. The pain of losing my one true love is pushing me right toward St. Mungo's. Hopefully, I will not wind up there, however, because everyone probably remembers me as the crazy house-elf lady. Not exactly a flattering title. Though perhaps not as bad as the Whore of Hogwarts.

Hmm.

In any case, Algernon must return to me before I wind up there. Quite possibly permanently.

Scandalous dress robes be damned!

**4:03 P.M.**

Victoria just burst in, looking quite befuddled indeed, and asked if I knew that Snape appeared to have been dancing about a half hour ago.

So perhaps I'm not crazy.

Which means that he, in fact, is.

Mwahahaha.

I am feeling much better indeed.

Poor Victoria, on the other hand, looked as though she were about to pass out, so I sent her off to Madam Pomfrey's. It's all quite understandable, of course. I suppose most people don't have my Snape-handling finesse.

**4:06 P.M.**

Could that have possibly come out more wrong?

**4:07 P.M.**

Well, I didn't mean anything by it.

Obviously.

**4:08 P.M.**

If you tell anyone, I swear to God I will destroy you.

**4:09 P.M.**

Notebook.

**4:10 P.M.**

. . . Right, then.

**4:15 P.M.**

Yes. I have composed myself. I'm perfectly all right. Snape-handling? Hah! Hardly.

So, yes. Algernon. He is gone, for the time being, and I am not insane. All is . . . as well as it could be, I suppose.

And yes, of course, the sweet sorrow bit is rather inevitable. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all. I reckon by the time we see each other next, we'll be mad about one another.

. . . Unless, of course, he meets some stunning sophisticate of a witch who wears only the finest Gladrags designs – she probably goes to him personally to get them, that tramp – and possesses lots of diamonds and unnaturally honed social skills. Yes, I can just see it now – she'll probably be a Black, or a Malfoy, or one of those snobbish, glamorous sorts, and her combination of unearthly beauty and Dark Arts prowess will have him eternally ensnared within a week!

Maybe even five days.

I knew I hated Narcissa Malfoy for a reason. I honestly always sensed that no good could come of her!

. . . Which could have been because she came from one of the most widely recognized Dark Arts-supporting families in the wizarding world and then married into another one. But still.

I should have realized it sooner. Of course she's fully capable of stealing Algernon away from me!

I mean, yes, sure, she's married, but who's to say fidelity is even in the Malfoy family dictionary? I know all too well of her loose and scandalous ways – after all, I was the one who walked in on her getting quite friendly indeed (friendly enough, in fact, that she felt so generous as to share a bit of saliva) with Lucius Malfoy at the graduation ball when she'd gone with Marius Macnair.

Slut.

See? Of course she'll be drawn to Algernon! He's handsome and quite well-off – at least as much as Lucius, I'd bet – and he's got an innocent Gryffindor-esque charm about him. (Plus, his hair isn't nearly as pretty as Lucius's. I'd find that very distracting, personally.) God, why didn't I see it before? Of course she'll be sinfully drawn to him somehow – I mean, I was fully aware of the dangers of this! It's exactly like a novel I read a few weeks ago, the new one by Moira K. Mockridge. This dark witch, Griselda, seduces this top Auror at the Ministry and manages to stay out of Azkaban because of it. He's completely infatuated, and she becomes intoxicated by the lust-ridden sin of it all, determined to corrupt him and bring him to the side of darkness . . .

All right, yes, in the end she recognized the way of righteousness and they settled down in a nice house with a few pet crups.

But _still_.

Happy endings like that don't actually come to pass!

Which means that Algernon is doomed to face corruption in the form of one Narcissa Malfoy!

Oh, God. I've got to warn him. I've got to, before he falls for her and I'll be left pathetic, thirty-one, and single for the rest of my days – unless, of course, Wimmy decides to look beyond the heartache I once caused him.

. . . I'm only kidding. Honestly. No matter how low things got, I would not date a house-elf.

Or at least, as of now I think I wouldn't.

. . . And come to think of it, I actually won't even be thirty-one for the rest of my days.

Well, that's just discouraging.

I HATE NARCISSA MALFOY AND ALL SHE STANDS FOR.

**4:32 P.M.**

I also may still be a bit resentful about the fact that in sixth year she called me a frizzy-haired twit of a halfblood.

**4:33 P.M.**

Bitch.

**4:34 P.M.**

Perhaps I can somehow convince Algernon to come back here for, oh, I don't know, EVER.

I can tell him that I'm dying or something, and we've only a few months left. And we have to savour them, and let our love flourish before it's promptly extinguished by the dark and painful shadow of _death_!

**4:35 P.M.**

No, no, no. That's being pathetic. I'm doubting him, and that is thoroughly unacceptable when two people are preparing to dive into a serious and potentially everlasting relationship.

He will not fall madly in love with Narcissa Malfoy. The chances of that are around the same as those of tripping over a Crumple-Headed Snorkak in Peru.

Which are very, very low, according to last month's edition of The Quibbler.

Yes, it will all be perfectly all right. Algernon is completely and thoroughly dedicated to only one woman in the world, and that is yours truly.

**4:38 P.M.**

I think.

** Wednesday, October 30, 1991 **

**Teachers' Lounge**

**12:12 P.M.**

Victoria assures me that the possibility of Algernon falling for another woman – particularly Narcissa Malfoy – is nonexistent.

"I reckon she's perfectly happy with Lucius," Victoria said earlier. "After all, their nastiness levels are around equal. He's the next best thing to You-Know-Who."

Which, inevitably, took me to the unpleasant mental place wherein You-Know-Who was married. This is both very wrong and rather frightening.

**12:16 P.M.**

"Darling, would you take out the trash?"

"Yes, of course, sweet – just as soon as I'm done torturing a few defenseless Muggles."

"You're such a dear."

**12:17 P.M.**

Ew.

** Thursday, October 31, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:32 P.M.**

Algernon sent me an owl today – a rose and a little note that said _"Aur, I'm thinking of you. xox, Algernon."_

Oh, _sigh_. I really do adore him, and I suppose it doesn't sound like he's having a torrid affair with Narcissa Malfoy. All is well!

. . . of course, all would be even more well if Snape hadn't "accidentally" elbowed over the pitcher of pumpkin juice and drenched the note, rose, _and_ Herman the iguana, who'd been inching toward me.

Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into him. (Snape, not Herman. I prefer not to think about Herman at all, really, because when I do, I'm overcome with a violent urge to bash my head against the wall, or perhaps leap off the Astronomy Tower.) He's always been irreversibly bastardly, but lately he's just been . . .

I'm not sure there's even a word for it, and I'm not quite up to inventing one because I figure 'bastardly' fills my made-up-words quota for the day.

I'd almost think he was jealous.

. . . Which is, oddly, quite satisfying.

**1:37 P.M.**

Not that I don't hate him.

**1:38 P.M.**

Because I do.

**1:39 P.M.**

Him _and_ his bastardly ways!

**1:40 P.M.**

Bastard.

**1:52 P.M.**

The dictionary informs me that bastardly is, in fact, a word.

I guess I'm not as creative as I thought. It's a bit of a shame, really.

And I'm still not making up another one.

So there.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**10:12 P.M.**

Troll.

Dungeons.

Oh my.

**12:05 A.M.**

OH, SWEET STARS! SNAPE IS EVIL!

And not just in a bastardly sort of way! Oh, no! He's evil in a hooked-nose-greasy-black-cloak-wearing-constantly-lurking-dungeon-dwelling-heartless-monster-former-servant-of-You-Know-Who sort of way!

**12:07 A.M.**

. . .

**12:08 A.M.**

Phrasing it like that, I almost feel stupid about not realizing this earlier.

**12:09 A.M.**

Oops.

**12:11 A.M.**

You'd probably like to know how I made this brilliant discovery, Notebook. Well, I'll tell you. But prepare yourself – it's a tale of horror as well as intrigue and brilliant revelations on my part, and it certainly isn't suited for the faint of heart!

Though considering you don't have a heart, I figure you'll be perfectly okay.

Just thought I'd warn you anyway. It's the considerate thing to do, after all.

Anyhow, I suppose it is necessary that we start at the beginning – that being the start of the Halloween Feast. I arrived feeling quite at ease indeed; after all, at the time I had no clue that one of my colleagues was evil and could very well be homicidal. My biggest fear as of then was that I'd gain an obscene amount of weight due to excess food consumption at dinner, and then Algernon would stop by for a surprise visit only to find that I was roughly the size of a hippogriff. (Thankfully sans feathers.)

Of course, I shouldn't even be relaying this bit of information, since now that I know the truth it's hardly important.

. . . Besides, I sound like a bit of an idiot.

Yes.

Anyway.

So, the Feast went on splendidly – I was delighted to note that both Quirrell and Herman were absent. There was something positively liberating about the fact that I would be able to make it through one meal without the constantly lurking possibility that an iguana might sexually assault me floating around my mind. It's the simple things that count, I reckon.

I was right in the middle of pouring myself more pumpkin juice when the Great Hall doors burst open and Quirrell sprinted in. He promptly shouted out that there was a troll in the dungeons before collapsing onto the floor in a dead faint.

Thank _God_ that I never had any sort of actual romantic entanglement with the man.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Anyhow, I had a bit of a panicked moment which resulted in an unpleasant amount of pumpkin juice finding its way all over my robes. You see, I've always been a bit . . . unnerved by trolls.

To put it lightly.

Mum claims that it's an irrational fear. Irrational? I think _not_! I mean, they could bash your head in with one of those gigantic clubs of theirs! Not to mention that when something has feet that spiky, it almost seems a crime not to use that to their advantage. And I'm not entirely sure that they're stupid, either. All right, yes, they do quite a good show of being so if it's not the case, but what if they're brilliant? _So_ brilliant, in fact, that they're wise enough to hide their knowledge until the perfect moment presents itself and they can attack with full flourish, aided by their superhuman intelligence!

You just think about that.

So . . . yes. I was a bit afraid, and rather pumpkin-scented.

And then, being the sort of ridiculous old man that he is, Dumbledore instructed all the teachers down to the dungeons to _look for the troll_. I honestly think that some sick part of him would like to see us all dead.

But everyone from McGonagall to Kettleburn stood up and took out their wands and set off, like they were just going to de-gnome a garden or something, rather than face spiky-footed _death_.

Idiots, the lot of them.

So I was rather forced to set off; I followed the crowd out into the corridor, surrounded by panicking students and certain Prefects positively _thriving_ on the rush of being able to command their fellow House members (cough Percy Weasley cough). I'll admit, I really was a bit nervous. Maybe even slightly terrified. And so I did the only possible thing I _could_ do – I clung to the person nearest to me.

Who just happened to be Snape.

Really, I wasn't even _surprised_ by then. I mean, of course it was Snape. It's always Snape.

Well . . . either Snape or a house-elf.

And at the time I was rather grateful that it was the former, considering Wimmy would be, I reckon, rather lousy protection against a troll.

And that was all, you know.

Hah. Like I'd want to be clinging to Snape.

Especially as he's _a servant of darkness_.

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the nicer sort.

Of course, try telling Snape that. Stupid evil git probably thought I was attempting to seduce him, or something.

Hah. As though I'd ever do that.

. . . Again.

"Auriga! _What_ are you doing?" And naturally he felt compelled to give me one of his more disgusted sneers – you know, the ones that make you rather question why, exactly, you are worthy to walk the earth.

Why that man is allowed to teach young children I have no idea.

"Well," I replied, a bit shaken on account of the sneering, "you know – it's sure to be a bit dangerous down there. Trolls can be rather violent, and, well, you know—"

"Utter nonsense," he cut in, sounding very annoyed indeed.

I noticed, however, that he didn't so much as attempt to shake me off.

At the time, I thought it was rather peculiar and, all right, slightly . . . nice-ish. Slightly, mind! And don't disregard the –ish.

Of course, now that I know about his true intentions – hah. I'd have punched him, I'll have you know.

"Oh, just shut up," I said, quite irritated by then. "Let's just go . . . find the troll."

I found a pause was a bit necessary, as it's hardly the sort of thing that one should speak of lightly.

Snape didn't seem to share my opinion. (Something new and different for him, really.)

"The way you're babbling on, I'd think it were a Hungarian Horntail," he said, sounding kind of twistedly amused. But in his evil, Snape-ish way. I somehow doubt he ever gets giggly. Except, of course, in my moments of utmost humiliation. Hee. Hee. Hee. "What's the matter, Auriga? Surely you're not . . . frightened?" He smirked.

"Of course not!" I replied, trying to sound as though the very prospect was ridiculous. However, as I was a bit shaky with fear, it wasn't exactly convincing.

"Of course not," he repeated softly, but in a manner that made it very clear he actually meant 'the silly bint is probably about to wet herself.'

Which I most certainly was not. Hah. Please – I have some finesse. (And not just in Snape-handling, thank you.)

However, a rather looming shadow shifted to the right of us just then, and, well, it looked remarkably troll-shaped. It was . . . a faintly unpleasant shock. I felt compelled to react, just a little.

Er. If you want to call 'just a little' throwing myself into his arms and screaming bloody murder.

Which I'd like to, if you don't mind.

It was, in fact, a suit of armor.

But _how_ was I supposed to be aware of that, I ask you? It's not as though I've got every bit of this castle memorized! Those suits of armor can sneak up on you when you least expect it – it's hardly a laughing matter!

Of course, knowing Snape, I expected him to burst into a semi-hysterical fit of mirth. It is, I have discovered over time, his way.

But, very strangely, he didn't. Instead, he just sort of . . . _looked_ at me. This alone was rather frightening, as there was no trace of a sneer present. He looked terribly surprised at first, but that faded rather quickly and then he was just . . . staring.

It was a bit odd, of course, and oddly . . . dizzying. I thought that I might actually pull a Quirrell and faint.

"You are a truly ridiculous woman," he said after a moment, and reached over – I swear my heart stopped beating – and pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. They'd come quite near to falling off when I'd thrown myself into him, but oddly, I hadn't noticed. It, however, became exceptionally clear in that moment.

And then – just for a second, mind – I honestly thought that he was going to kiss me. It was as though everything else had simply faded away, or frozen, and there was no troll and no long-lasting feud between us and no Algernon, and . . .

Well, of course, I'm disgusted thinking about it now. I mean, honestly. He's _evil_.

Still, it was . . . I can't even find a word for it. It wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before, that was for sure.

And so we were simply standing there, and I was quite positive he would kiss me, when he, in fact, did not kiss me. Instead, he suddenly swore under his breath and disappeared down the hall without so much as a sneer.

I was still feeling a bit dizzy, and could only manage a very weak 'stupid bastard.'

And then I was struck by the rather unpleasant realization that he had left me alone in a very dark shadowy corridor while there was, in fact, a troll somewhere inside the castle.

Quite possibly somewhere close.

I knew it was my duty as a Hogwarts professor to go down to the dungeons and fearlessly pursue the wicked beast until its terrorizing ways were brought to a halt.

I also knew it was my duty as a human being to not die a gruesome and terrible death.

In the end, the latter won out.

And so I followed him.

I had no idea what he was doing, of course. Ridiculous woman that I am, I just assumed that he had panicked as soon as he'd realized he had actually displayed some proper emotion and then promptly rushed off.

Of course, this assumption was extinguished rather quickly when I caught up to him in time to see him entering the third floor corridor where the Stone is being kept.

 _Why,_ I rather stupidly wondered, _would he want to go in there with that beast of Hagrid's? Trolls not enough for him now?_

And then I looked around and discovered that the halls were, in fact, quite deserted indeed. It wasn't as though anyone but me had seen him go in there.

_Perhaps a secret dog lover, then?_

Of course, then it hit me that the Stone was slightly more desirable than Fluffy.

. . . And that to attain it, one _would_ need a bit of privacy.

A diversion of some sort would be necessary.

It would almost make it all too easy.

One might simply need to let a troll into the castle, and while everyone else was panicking and searching for it, they could slip into the corridor unnoticed and retrieve the Stone.

 _But why would Snape want the Stone?_ I pondered. _He doesn't seem the type that would go mental over the prospect of lots of gold and eternal life. And besides, he would hardly betray Dumbledore, after Dumbledore trusted him enough to believe he was redeemed . . ._

And then it hit me.

 _To_ believe _he was redeemed._

Dumbledore really was the trusting sort – believed in second chances and such. He'd even welcome former followers of the Dark Lord into his teaching staff if he truly thought they'd seen the ways of righteousness.

And eternal life seemed the sort of thing that You-Know-Who would be rather fond of.

And then it all came together, in one very obvious answer.

Snape was evil.

Snape _is_ evil.

Snape is evil, and still very much a Death Eater, and he's aiding You-Know-Who so he can be brought back to life somehow. I honestly can't believe I didn't suspect it before now. I mean, I'd just never even considered . . . I mean, of course he's foul and scathing and generally unpleasant, but that doesn't always mean _evil_ , does it?

Well, yes, I've learned my lesson now.

Yes, it does.

He's been lying to all of us for all these years, and there's a good chance we're all in danger.

I've got to tell Dumbledore.

**12:43 P.M.**

. . . But will he believe me? They all do consider me a bit ditzy, I think, and it's no secret that Snape and I can't stand each other. Just this morning Victoria said something to me about how I'd probably sell my soul to see Snape fired. Besides, it's not as though I have any _evidence_. Snape will deny it, of course, and Dumbledore will believe him before me. After all, for some reason that's never really been revealed to the rest of us, he really trusts Snape. Really, honestly trusts him.

**12:45 P.M.**

So I guess it's just me, then.

No one else will listen to me. They'll all just think I'm being stupid, or trying to get Snape in trouble, or reading far too much Moira K. Mockridge.

Which I may be, but that is beside the point.

**12:46 P.M.**

And you know what this means, don't you?

I'm completely alone – it's only me and this dreadful secret. Only _I_ will know what the darkness in Snape's eyes truly means – only _I_ will see his true intentions, and know as I stare into that blackened gaze that once I purely and foolishly believed that he was a man I could have loved.

**12:48 P.M.**

Oh dear Lord.

**12:49 P.M.**

I appear to be living a Moira K. Mockridge novel.

**12:50 P.M.**

And a crappy one, at that.

**12:51 P.M.**

You know, it's really quite dispiriting, to know that your life wouldn't even make the Flourish and Blotts best-seller list.


	14. Auriga Sinistra: Snape Seer

** Friday, November 1, 1991 **

** Teacher's Lounge **

** 12:02 P.M. **

I'm not sure I can stand to live like this.

All around me, my colleagues are babbling about how Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger beat the hell out of a mountain troll last night and managed to win a grand total of five points for Gryffindor. Oooh, ahh. They don't _understand_. They have no idea of the true evil that walks within our midst!

He's sitting at the end of the table, writing. Occasionally, he'll glance up and sneer at everyone. And let me tell you, these are _evil_ sneers, too – he's probably envisioning the lot of us hanging from our fingernails from the dungeon ceiling, screaming out in agony and begging for him to let us down. He won't, of course (evil bastard) – instead, he'll just laugh triumphantly. I expect he'll be pacing back and forth, very slowly, tapping his fingertips together. (That's what evil bastards do, you know. Scientifically proven fact.)

"You expect me to release you?" he'll ask, his voice dripping with malice. "How _quaint_."

And then I suppose everyone will turn their attention to me, because, let's face it, my relationship with him is far more advanced than anyone else's. Except maybe Dumbledore's, but I doubt even Snape would have the nerve to hang Dumbledore from the ceiling by his fingernails. He'll probably just buy Dumbledore a ticket to Jamaica and tell him that he's been working too hard and deserves a bit of a rest. "Go on, buddy. Take the weekend off. I'll keep an eye on things around here."

And Dumbledore, of course, will oblige, because the idiotic ridiculous stupid stupid STUPID old man does not recognize that he has employed a homicidal maniac. He'll probably be so busy sucking on Fizzing Whizbees that he won't even bother to glance up and see that Snape's eyes have gone red and he keeps bursting into random fits of evil laughter.

"Yes, of course, Severus. Do make sure to remind Hagrid to chase the Weasley twins out of the Forbidden Forest every so often."

"Of course, Headmaster. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing."

"All right. Everything seems to be in order, then."

Oh, dear. We'll never even stand a chance. The man may be the most powerful wizard in the world, but Snape knows his ultimate weakness. Dumbledore doesn't exactly attempt to hide it, after all. I doubt anyone in this castle _doesn't_ know that for a bag of Honeydukes sweets he'll sell his own Aunt Bertha. (I don't know whether Dumbledore has an Aunt Bertha, actually – and, I suppose, even if he did, she wouldn't be alive anymore. But she's a figurative Aunt Bertha, mind, so you can just stop looking at me like that.)

Oh my _God_ – I wouldn't be at all surprised if Snape _bought_ the Fizzing Whizbees for Dumbledore, perfectly aware of the docile state into which they would render him!

(Not to mention that it probably amuses him to the point of no return to see the old man hovering a few feet off the ground. Just watch – he'll go and get the best headmaster Hogwarts ever had addicted to Billywig stings. Sick _bastard_.)

And so, of course, Dumbledore will have gone to Jamaica, leaving the rest of us to attempt to fend off Snape. Only the rest of us won't be aware of his true nature – only I am! And I'm hardly a match against a powerful dark wizard. I mean, I never properly mastered _Stunning_ spells, for God's sake.

Oh dear, oh dear.

Dumbledore will disappear, and Snape will probably do something grotesque to all of the children. I don't even want to think about that. Except, of course, Draco Malfoy, whom he is probably so fond of that he'll buy him a collar and a nice fluffy pillow and have Draco trail around after Snape like some twisted . . . lapdog, or something.

And then, of course, we humble educators will be banished to the dungeon, and Snape will somehow manage to hang us up by our fingernails. This will probably result in everyone _losing_ their fingernails, which really is unpleasant, but on the plus side, it'll get me to stop biting mine. But this will hardly matter once Snape's terrifying reign has begun.

And . . . where was I to begin with?

Wait. Let me go check.

** 12:10 P.M. **

All right, got it.

"You expect me to release you?" he'll ask, his voice dripping with malice. "How _quaint_."

And then he'll stop in front of me, and we'll exchange a _look_. Not just a look in the way of 'oh, hum dee dum, there's Auriga; I do wonder how nasty her cuticles will be after this, ha _ha_!' but a real, genuine _look._ Maybe even a _Look._

. . . Yes, definitely a _Look_.

Because we share a tangled and impassioned relationship, he and I. Beneath all the loathing and the scathing comments and the occasional coffee mug, we've always truly had a _connection_ , Snape and I have. And beyond our mutual detesting of one another, he probably truly, purely cares for me, the one genuinely _good_ feeling he possesses amidst all the darkness and evil and random 'mwahaha!' attacks.

He _did_ do that victory dance, after all.

And so he'll pause for a moment, and I'll stare down at him, knowing that it is my duty to weave my charms around him as best I can in order to save my colleagues, the students, and the entirety of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. (Where Harry Potter is throughout all of this, I have no clue. A bit bratty of him, really, to leave that kind of responsibility on _my_ shoulders.)

"Auriga," Snape will say, very softly, and there will, for the first time, be a flicker of doubt in his darkened eyes.

"Severus," I'll then reply evenly, but in a tone that implies that I, too, sense the endless underlying longing between us.

And he'll simply stare up at me, caught between light and darkness, heaven and hell, the blackened and addictive power that comes from serving You-Know-Who battling against the naïve and genuine sweetness in my eyes.

"Auriga," he'll say again, his voice raw with emotion. "I

** 12:20 P.M. **

certainly wouldn't dream to doubt that you're writing something of . . ." _sneer_ , ". . . utmost importance, but in case you were far too swept up in a description of your exploits with your . . ." _sneer again_ , ". . . ever-so-charming paramour, the headmaster just requested that we leave the teacher's lounge."

I hate him.

** Bedroom Quarters **

** 12:26 P.M. **

And I honestly haven't a clue where any of that came from. Probably the lack of sleep last night. After all, when one finds out that one's longtime sworn enemy is _evil_ , disappearing into a land of dreams is slightly difficult.

But, you know, it's certainly not _too_ far-fetched.

** 12:27 P.M. **

All right, all right, it _is_ a bit far-fetched.

** 12:28 P.M. **

Fine. I admit it. I'm completely insane.

** 12:29 P.M. **

Don't see why it's any of your concern anyway, you stupid notebook.

** 12:30 P.M. **

And you can just quit sitting there all docile like you didn't do anything.

** 12:31 P.M. **

What, have you been taking nasty bastard lessons from Snape?

** 12:32 P.M. **

What was that?

Yes, well, so's your mum, you rotten little wretch!

** 12:33 P.M. **

Er.

** 12:44 P.M. **

Um. I've just reread all of what I've written today, and . . .

Oh dear. I'm beyond insane.

. . . or perhaps . . .

** 12:45 P.M. **

Good Lord.

** 12:46 P.M. **

I could _be_ Moira K. Mockridge.

** 12:47 P.M. **

(Though admittedly with worse hair.)

** 12:48 P.M. **

(And yes, I _am_ aware that that doesn't account at all for the little . . . row with the notebook.)

** 12:49 P.M. **

(Oh, sod off.)

** AstronomyTower **

** 9:23 P.M. **

I have determined, after much consideration, that maybe it would be best if I were to give up writing in here for a bit.

I think that finding out Snape's true nature has sent me off the edge. I can't be _blamed_ for it, of course – I mean, it's a horrifying revelation.

But that simply does not change the fact that I had an argument with an inanimate notebook.

And seem to have composed a rather questionable mini-romance novel featuring Snape, myself, and a potentially Billywig-sting-overdosing Dumbledore.

No good can come of this.

God, I need Algernon to come back. I honestly felt about a hundred times more sane when he was around.

** 9:30 P.M. **

_ Sigh _ .

** Tuesday, November 6, 1991 **

** Bedroom Quarters **

** 5:52 P.M. **

All right. I think I may be a bit saner now. I've had time to embrace the fact that Snape is evil, and I've come to terms with it.

I've also accepted that it does not seem to be his style to hang all of his coworkers from the ceiling of the dungeon by their fingernails.

For you see, I've been watching him more closely than ever lately. I figure that if no one else knows about him, then it makes it all the more important that I _really_ know him – all of his little mannerisms and the way he reacts to certain things. This way, if he ever does choose to snap and kill us all, I may be able to foresee it. It's a bit like Divination.

Auriga Sinistra, Snape Seer.

. . . Okay, perhaps I won't bother with an official title, because that's a bit stupid.

But anyhow. I've been watching him over the past week, making little mental notes of things. The first is that he's been limping around everywhere rather than walking properly, which either means that he didn't make it past Fluffy unscathed – or, more likely, he didn't make it at all – or that he just wants sympathy and attention from the rest of us and will go to great lengths to get it.

And that just seems downright unlikely.

He's also, I've noticed, been in an even nastier mood than usual lately. While casually walking behind him in the hall (and no, I am not _stalking_ him. Being a Snape Se— ahem, doing this particular job – just requires such things) I've witnessed him take a total of one hundred and eighty two points from assorted houses. He's even been snapping at the Slytherins, which is rather unnatural. Perhaps You-Know-Who is putting a bit of pressure on him; something of a deadline to get the Stone so he can rise again and wreak general havoc over the entire wizarding world before Christmas.

Why, isn't that jolly.

Lastly, I've noticed that Snape seems to be keeping a particularly close eye on Quirrell lately. He keeps shooting him menacing glances at meals and when they pass in the corridors and such. Quirrell, of course, seems terrified. I haven't the faintest clue what's going on there. The only thing I've been able to come up with is that maybe Quirrell suspects him too, and somehow has worked up the courage to tell Snape that.

In which case, I'm not alone, like I'd thought.

Quirrell, too, is suffering the same plight, completely unaware that I know exactly what he's going through. I suppose that we could join forces – share the woes of being so thoroughly detached from every other inhabitant of the castle; try to work out exactly when Snape will try to strike, growing closer and closer all the while . . .

** 6:03 P.M. **

Ugh.

** 6:04 P.M. **

Give me solitude any day, thank you.

** Friday, November 8, 1991 **

** Teacher's Lounge **

** 10:12 A.M. **

Oh my goodness. That was terribly close. _Too_ close.

This sort of lifestyle honestly doesn't work for me. I honestly think that stress does odd things to me. Besides the obvious occasional psychotic episode in which arguing with a notebook in a way that implied the notebook could talk back takes place, I also think that my hair is getting increasingly frizzy. Now, I know that this sounds absolutely ridiculous. Who ever heard of stress causing someone's hair to rebel? But I swear to God it's true. I mean, even _Snape's_ noticed. He made one of his signature scathing comments about it earlier at breakfast.

Of course, that could be because I turned my head and accidentally managed to hit him in the face with my hair, but _still_. Aren't men supposed to be completely oblivious about that sort of thing unless it's painfully obvious?

At the rate this is going, by the end of the month I am going to be sporting an afro.

I do hope Algernon doesn't show up for any romantic surprise visits, because if he saw me like this, he would probably die on the spot. And I really wouldn't be able to blame him.

But back to the horrifying instance that has caused my hair to frizz yet more.

So, I was simply sitting and enjoying a cup of coffee and Moira K. Mockridge's most recent novel when Victoria came in, claiming she needed a caffeine fix before facing her fifth year Arithmancy class.

This, of course, was fine with me. Things were going perfectly well – she asked whether the book was any good, and then began talking about how much she'd loved A Dangerous Spell (you know, the one that paralleled Algernon and Narcissa Malfoy's nonexistent relationship), and we had a bit of a pleasant conversation before she went silent.

I went back to the book, figuring she was going to leave in a minute, but instead she just kept sitting there and staring at me. This caused me to panic a bit – maybe she had noticed that I'd been keeping an eye on Snape and wanted to ask what the hell I was doing and if I was going to contemplate cheating on Algernon with him or something ridiculous like that, and then of course I'd feel compelled to share the true story because otherwise she wouldn't give the infidelity idea a rest, and then she wouldn't believe me and she'd probably tell McGonagall I'd gone crackers, and then McGonagall'd pass it on to Dumbledore straight away, and . . .

Well, anyway.

"Aur," she finally said, "are you okay?"

Considering the thought process I'd just gone through, I wasn't exactly able to reply nonchalantly. "What? What do you mean, am I okay? I'm good. Splendid. Brilliant."

I am sometimes an idiot.

Victoria, however, didn't seem to pick up on that. "You've just seemed so distant lately."

"Yeah, well . . ."

Unfortunately, I ran out of reply after 'yeah, well…', quite simply because I didn't particularly want to follow it up with "you see, Snape is evil, and I'm the only one that knows this, so naturally I've got to keep an eye on him for the good of all of this school."

Victoria, thankfully, did not seem to pick up on my unspoken desire to say this. Instead, she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, sympathy all over her face. "Missing Algernon, huh?"

And then I realized, feeling quite overjoyed indeed, that this seemed entirely plausible.

"Yes, yes," I agreed, nodding fervently. "You know, because he's gone, and I'm here, and I really quite miss him, because he's really a wonderful man."

Victoria nodded in agreement. "Yes, he is." She squeezed my hand again before standing up and smiling at me. "Hang in there, Aur."

You know, when she's not being sex-obsessed or enjoying my seemingly perpetual embarrassment, I really do love her.

And I was struck by this as I watched her head toward the doorway, and for a second I was overcome with a desire to tell her what, exactly, was really going on. She hates Snape, after all, and _I'm_ her best friend – why wouldn't she believe me?

But I couldn't, for some reason.

I suppose I just don't want to drag anyone else into this.

Lord knows it's driving me insane enough as it is.

** Bedroom Quarters **

** 1:11 P.M. **

You know, perhaps he's not evil after all.

I mean, yes, he's awful, as it is. Aiding You-Know-Who in his return generally makes one a disgraceful excuse for a human being. But just because he's made a few shoddy choices doesn't necessarily mean that his soul is blackened and he lacks the slightest trace of humanity.

If such were the case, the events that just took place certainly wouldn't have happened.

Though maybe I've just gone crazy again. Lord knows it was incredibly peculiar. I was just walking out of the teacher's lounge, having finally finished Moira K. Mockridge's new novel (absolutely _excellent_ , by the way), only to find that Snape was heading towards me, looking deeply annoyed.

"Auriga," he said, in this very terse tone, "we need to talk."

And before I even had the chance to so much as respond, he grabbed my arm and began leading me very forcefully out into the courtyard. There were students mingling around everywhere, chatting and apparently enjoying their bit of free time before the afternoon lessons. I, for one, couldn't even begin to see how it was the slightest bit enjoyable – it was absolutely freezing outside, to the point where I could see my breath and my fingers stung from it and everything. Of course, I didn't even have a cloak, but it's hardly surprising that Snape managed to completely and entirely not give anything even faintly resembling a damn.

Still, he kept on walking, and didn't stop until we reached a rather deserted little corner of the courtyard that's almost entirely blocked off by interweaving vines of ivy. It is, of course, universally recognized as the second most popular place to snog at Hogwarts (the first being the Astronomy Tower. Lucky me.) so, naturally, I began to panic a little.

Although, admittedly, not as much as Marcus Flint and Tara Nott did upon being caught by Snape.

"Out!" he snapped.

They were gone before I could even properly register how disturbing it is to witness two of your students apparently attempting to eat one another's mouths.

Snape watched them go for a moment before turning to face me.

I wondered vaguely if he was going to kidnap me and hang me by the fingernails from the ceiling of his dungeon.

"Now," he said, sounding more than slightly formidable.

I absently brought one of my hands to my mouth and began gnawing on my left thumbnail. I figured I may as well take advantage of our last moments together, after all.

"I-" he paused and looked down at me. "What are you doing?"

I pulled my hand away from my mouth instantly. "Nothing."

He gave me a look that clearly expressed he was questioning my sanity – what else is new? – before beginning his speech again.

"Firstly - I know that you are so apt to jump to ridiculous conclusions, Auriga, but do try to restrain yourself this once."

I blinked. "Er."

My second impulse, after the inevitable complete bewilderment, was to deny this – where did the bastard think he got the right to make those kinds of judgments, anyway?

But then I remembered that he was, in fact, evil, and was therefore able to remain quiet.

(See? Quite the un-ridiculous thing to do, thank you very much!)

"I really care little how you choose to ruin your life," he informed me. "That is rather your own choice. You could throw yourself from the Astronomy Tower in some demented lover's leap and I certainly wouldn't stop you." (I was at this point very tempted to mutter 'Gee, thanks,' but refrained. Evil, and all that.) "I wouldn't even bother speaking to you about this and thusly wasting my time if it were not for the fact that this matter concerns . . . other . . . people."

It was then that I started to suspect that I wasn't the crazy one there.

Unfortunately, I also started to suspect that I was going to die of hypothermia.

"Furthermore—" he stopped and glanced at me again. I found myself wishing that he would stop doing that; the sooner he finished his psychotic babbling, the sooner I could get inside. With every pause-filled second, I was wasting away, but damned if he seemed to care.

Or so I thought then, anyway.

"You're shivering," he observed, sounding slightly annoyed by this.

"Yes," I replied, unable to keep some level of irritation out of my tone. A bit unwise, yes, but I was dying, for God's sake! I think I was allowed a bit of foolishness. "People often do that when they're trapped outside in frosty, freezing weather without a cloak."

He narrowed his eyes at me, a rather nasty sneer making its way onto his face. I'll tell you, I honestly thought he might kill me right then and there. I attempted to comfort myself by reasoning that he wouldn't exactly attempt blatant homicide in a courtyard filled with young and impressionable children, even if none of them could exactly see us on account of the ivy. This, however, was cut short when he reached toward his cloak, obviously about to grab his wand and murder me for my insolence. Bystanders be damned! He was going to . . .

. . . take off his cloak and put it around my shoulders.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Auriga," he said, managing to sound impressively exasperated considering he was behaving somewhat nicely. "Perhaps if you would be so sensible as to wear suitable robes . . ."

I was aware that it was my turn to offer a sharp remark, but was a bit dazed on account of the fact that I'd just almost been murdered and then given a cloak. Instead, I just stared rather blankly up at him.

"I would like that back eventually, you know," he informed me after a moment, in this way where it seemed like he was trying to sound cruel and scathing but couldn't quite manage it.

I nodded weakly, slightly consumed by the fact that an evil man's cape was wrapped around my shoulders, and then something dawned on me.

"Yes, well," I said, and allowed myself a rather wicked smile. "You'll get it back when I get my sweater."

He blinked, looking utterly taken aback. I, meanwhile, was overcome with triumph at the fact that for once the tables had turned and I, Auriga Sinistra, had made _him_ , Severus Snape, feel like an idiot and not vice versa!

. . . and yes, I'm aware that stating our names was a little unnecessary, but it added to the glory, so you can just shut up.

Notebook.

"Now," I said, smiling – being the blink-inducingly clever one for a change was incredibly empowering, "what was it you wanted to talk about, precisely?"

He sneered. "Nothing that concerns me any longer, I assure you."

And then he turned and disappeared across the courtyard. I stared after him, still quite unnerved by the whole bizarre exchange, as he stormed over to Harry Potter and his friends and started pestering them about something. He grabbed a book right out of Harry's hand and limped on back towards the castle.

_ Honestly _ . That was rather ridiculous, even for him. I imagine he told him that reading wasn't allowed, or something like that.

Which is really just a fabulous attitude for a teacher to project.

And so here I am, sitting here and wondering what on earth is going on in Severus Snape's twisted mind. Because, all right, he is You-Know-Who's mindless slave. But he also gave me his cloak. That can't make him entirely evil, can it?

Not that I'd mind either way, really.

I mean, it's certainly not as if I'm still wearing it.

Hah!

Ha.

. . . ha.

** Saturday, November 9, 1991 **

** Bedroom Quarters **

** 1:12 P.M. **

Oh my God.

I honestly cannot believe this. I honestly, truly cannot _believe_ that –

Oooh, that bastard. That absolutely sick, twisted, disgusting homicidal awful wretched . . .

Er, anyway.

You get my point.

But really. You do _not_ try to kill Harry Potter! It's practically sacrilegious! I mean . . . my _God_.

Okay. Breathe, self. Breathe.

I will attempt to explain things rationally.

So, today was the first Quidditch match of the season. Everyone was terribly excited, of course, and I'd finally put worrying about Snape and his evil ways out of my mind, for just a bit. After all, he seemed somewhat human yesterday, and I figured that he wasn't going to lash out anytime soon. And so Victoria and I headed down to the match, rather looking forward to it and fully intending to root for Gryffindor so obnoxiously that we would have Snape's eye twitching.

(This, of course, was Victoria's idea.)

We took our seats next to Snape (an imperative part of Victoria's aforementioned idea) and it promised to be rather enjoyable. And it was, for the first twenty minutes or so.

And then Harry's broom went insane.

Honestly – it started jerking around wildly, like it was a temperamental horse about ready to buck him right off. Everyone in the stands immediately began to panic, of course, and amidst all the chaos I noticed something—

Snape was muttering to himself.

I turned, as nonchalantly as I could manage, and discovered that he was staring straight up at Harry. Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what the source of his broom's sudden strange behaviour was.

I panicked. Though really, can you blame me? I mean, the boy's life was in my hands – I had to do something to Snape, and do it quickly.

And so I began to devise a spur of the moment plan, which consisted of – well, all right, and you _cannot_ hold this against me . . .

Keep in mind that I knew I had to do something that would throw him utterly, that would break his concentration and render him completely shocked and distracted so that Harry could make it to the ground safely.

And really, I cannot think of a better way to completely shock and distract Severus Snape than by kissing him.

Of course, it would give him ideas that I couldn't even begin to reverse, no matter what my excuses were. He'd probably spend the rest of his long and evil life thinking I was madly in love with him. But it was a matter of life or death, and I simply had to push aside such thoughts.

And so I did. And I was about to lean over and grab him when suddenly—

He was on fire.

It really did cause a bit of a stir – one second, he was cursing Harry Potter, and the next crying out in surprise because his robes had caught fire.

Harry made it to the ground safely, thank goodness – and not only that, he'd also managed to catch the Snitch.

In his mouth.

I sometimes can't help but think that perhaps that boy has superhuman abilities of some sort.

So, thank God, everything turned out all right.

I didn't even have to kiss Snape.

But that doesn't change the fact that Snape tried to kill Harry, and I somehow doubt he's going to give up just because his first attempt ended with him being nearly engulfed by flames. Oh, no. He's going to keep on trying . . .

Unless I confront him.

And I have to, I've realized. I've just got to go to him, tell him that I'm fully aware of what he's up to, and that I'll go to Dumbledore unless he stops.

There's no time to waste. Not in a situation like this.

Wish me luck, Notebook. I'm off to the dungeons right this instant.

** 1:23 P.M. **

I'm really going.

** 1:27 P.M. **

Honestly.

** 1:32 P.M. **

Okay. Yes. I'm going.

** 1:35 P.M. **

If I never write again, it's because he's killed me.

Or possibly because I'm hanging from the ceiling of the dungeon by my fingernails.

** 1:40 P.M. **

Going now.

** 1:41 P.M. **

Promise.


	15. A Proposed Platonic Partnership

** Saturday, November 9, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:42 P.M.**

Really. I'm going.

**1:43 P.M.**

Any minute now.

**1:44 P.M.**

Oh, this is ridiculous.

**1:45 P.M.**

How very like me.

**1:48 P.M.**

. . . I appear to have grown an inner-Snape.

**1:49 P.M.**

Oops.

**3:02 P.M.**

. . . Quirrell?

**3:03 P.M.**

No, really.

_. . . Quirrell?_

**3:04 P.M.**

Perhaps it is Snape. I mean, knowing him, he might just take it for granted that I'm a gullible idiot (or so he thinks. I prefer to think that I am _benevolently trusting_ , thank you very much) and tell me that Quirrell is the traitor so once more no one will suspect his true sinister intentions.

. . . But somehow, I just don't think so.

But oh, Notebook, you would be proud of me. Let me tell you, without a bit of hesitation (. . . shut up), I marched on down to the dungeons, fully intent upon informing Snape that attempting to murder a student was generally frowned upon.

And so I threw the door open, took a moment to make sure that there wasn't a class in there that I could somehow scar for life (technically, I knew there wouldn't be one, as it is Saturday, but when one possesses my flair for misfortune, they learn to be cautious very quickly. Or, well, all right, eventually in my case), and then stormed right up to Snape's desk. He was sitting there all innocently – or as innocently as Snape can manage to look – and apparently grading papers, and had the nerve to look annoyed at my presence.

"Excuse me for asking, Auriga, but I really find I cannot help myself," he said, all characteristically sarcastic and sneer-ridden. "Do you think yourself capable of refraining from bursting in here at all hours? While some may find it charming—"

But I wasn't going to take any of his detestably sardonic ways. No sir, not I! Instead, I gave him the most evil look I could muster and shouted, quite mercilessly if I do say so myself, "YOU, SEVERUS SNAPE, ARE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING! AND NOT JUST IN THE SENSE THAT YOU NEGLECT YOUR SHOWER, EITHER!" I was right up in his face then, let me tell you. I'd actually, er, sort of climbed across the desk, which could in retrospect be construed as slightly suggestive. But I was angry! I was _furious_! And I was not trying to seduce Severus Snape.

Because I never would.

Except that one time.

Which doesn't even begin to count, really, as I thought he was Quirrell.

. . . Who happens to apparently be evil.

Oh, _never mind_.

Back to my shouting, then—

So I was right in his face, and I just kept on yelling, even though he was staring at me as though I'd gone crazier than it was possible to go. "DID YOU _HONESTLY_ THINK THAT YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH THE COLDBLOODED MURDER OF HARRY POTTER, OF ALL PEOPLE? EVEN YOU-KNOW-WHO COULDN'T, MIND, AND YOU'RE HARDLY AS IMPRESSIVE AS HE IS WHEN IT COMES TO BEING A SICK, TWISTED, REVOLTINGLY EVIL _BASTARD!_ "

I fell silent then, just because it seemed like a good stopping place, and listened to the word 'BASTARD!' echo repeatedly off the cold stone walls in my voice.

It was actually a bit cool.

Very formidable.

See? I _could_ have been a Slytherin. People probably doubt my credibility when it comes to being unpleasant, but let me tell you, I think I can actually be rather nasty. All these 'starry-eyed and socially inept' preconceptions really-

Er. Anyway.

So he just stared at me for a moment in what I think just might have been utter horror (hee! Slytherin, I tell you!) for at least twenty seconds. It really got a bit awkward after a bit, too. I thought he might come up with some scathing, quintessentially Snape-esque retort that would manage to make me feel idiotic even though I had exploded at him in the name of righteousness, but he just kept staring.

I felt kind of tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but refrained. At the time, I still thought him evil, after all.

Besides, it seemed slightly immature.

(Which, all right, hasn't stopped me before, but let's not dwell on the past.)

Finally, he seemed to come to his senses, and requested, quite coldly, that I kindly remove myself from his desk, as I was rumpling the essays, and he would hate to have to explain to the first-year Gryffindors that their homework had been damaged due to a certain Astronomy teacher's presence atop them.

This seemed reasonable enough (besides, I really did not need any more fuel in the 'Professor-Sinistra's-a-trollop!' fire), so I did as he asked. I did not, of course, stop glaring at him, though. I know how to handle a potentially homicidal servant of You-Know-Who, and don't you doubt it.

. . . Notebook.

Ahem.

So, anyway, Snape had just gone back to grading the essays as though I wasn't there at all, which was quite obnoxious of him, if you ask me. And naturally, I couldn't let him get away with it – stupid prat – and so I continued, but a bit calmer this time and, yes, without crawling all over his desk.

"You tried to kill Harry Potter," I said, as evenly as possible.

Snape looked up at me, positively exasperated. "As usual, Auriga, I have no idea whatsoever what-"

"Oh, no!" I snapped, rather angrily. "You're not getting away with it that easily, Snape!"

He arched an eyebrow at me. "Really then?" he said, quite smoothly. "And why might that be, pray tell?"

"Because!" I exclaimed, feeling a bit annoyed and wondering why he couldn't just accept that I was onto him without requiring any sort of further explanation. "I saw you muttering that curse while his broomstick was going mental! I'm not an idiot, Severus."

Note to self for future reference: Never, _never_ claim you are not an idiot to Severus Snape, as he will always contradict you. It is a strange, sick instinct of his.

He set down his quill and looked straight up at me, gaze completely unwavering. He really does have an intense stare. It's really a bit . . .

Alarming.

Puts one off.

Instantly.

Yes.

"If you aren't an idiot – a rather questionable claim, I must add," he said, and paused to give himself a few seconds of smirking time. Bastard. "—then by all means, Auriga, explain to me how you've formulated this . . . theory of yours."

Well, by now it's safe to say that I was downright annoyed. I mean, have you any idea how _aggravating_ it is to have your dramatic accusation completely destroyed by a bunch of skeptical and sarcastic comments?

Aaaurgh!

"It's not exactly Advanced Arithmancy, Snape," I responded, as coolly as I could manage. "I doubt anyone in this school _doesn't_ know that you hate the poor boy – not to mention that the majority of the staff is perfectly aware of your past loyalties."

His hand jerked suddenly at that, and sent a bottle of ink crashing all over the desk. He didn't even acknowledge his faintly destructive behaviour.

I began to suspect right about then that perhaps I shouldn't have brought up the entire 'past loyalties' issue; it really was a bit dangerous considering that at the time I also believed them to be his present loyalties. And really, I never meant to! It just . . . came out.

And wound up being, surprise surprise, terribly stupid of me.

"That is none of your concern, nor do you have any right to reference something which you know nothing about," he said, and he would have sounded perfectly composed if it weren't for the edge of absolute fury sneaking into his voice.

And let me tell you, Notebook, I was plenty tempted to stammer out an apology and then turn and run. But I was on a mission to make sure that the savior of the Wizarding world wasn't murdered, and my resolve was steadfast!

(Never mind that I nearly fainted before replying. Irrelevant, really.)

"I think I have a fair bit of right, actually, if you're still up to serving Him!" I replied, as bravely as I could. And I don't think it sounded particularly weak and frightened, either. Obviously, I've rather impressive Gryffindor-esque abilities as well.

Snape, predictably, did not seem at all impressed with my courageous ways. Just like him, really. On the contrary, he looked almost as though he was tempted to burst into hysterical laughter. Thankfully, he didn't – let me tell you, I'm not sure I would have survived witnessing yet another Severus Snape Laughing Fit. And that has nothing to do with being cowardly, either – it's quite simply just unnatural on his part. So there.

Er. Where was I?

Ah, right.

So he didn't laugh. Instead, he just stared at me as though I were the most foolish creature he had ever encountered in the entirety of his life, before finally announcing, "If I'm still in the Dark Lord's service, then you are keeping Quirrell's iguana as a secret paramour."

"Ugh!" I cried out, as I really didn't have time to sort out what, precisely, he was trying to communicate, and had only caught the fact that he suspected Herman was my secret lover. Certainly an 'ugh'-worthy situation. "You're an entirely sick and disgusting man if you really think that there's something going on between me and that foul iguana!"

Snape gave me a very pointed look.

And then I realized what, precisely, he had been trying to say.

"Ah," I said weakly. "Right."

But that hardly answered any questions.

"Wait!" I said, and glared at him. "If you're not serving You-Know-Who, then why the hell are you trying to kill Harry Potter? And why're you trying to get to the Stone? _Hmm_?"

"Slatero Quirrell," Snape responded evenly, as though this made any sense whatsoever.

And, well, at the moment I was so thrown off by it that I thought he wanted to engage in some bizarre game in which one named Hogwarts staff members, so I promptly replied, "Minerva McGonagall."

He looked at me for a moment before apparently deciding he didn't want to know, then said, quite slowly (I hate it when he talks to me like I'm two. Or severely mentally disinclined), "Slatero Quirrell is trying to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. He is also trying to kill Harry Potter."

I blinked. "Slatero Quirrell is afraid of the dark."

He is, too; I wasn't just making things up there. Once, I was the first one in the staffroom, and hadn't gotten around to lighting the candles yet as I was really in desperate need of a cup of coffee. Quirrell came in and absolutely _panicked_. He was clutching to poor Herman like he was positive he would quite simply never see the light of day again.

(Personally, I do think he's a bit of a drama queen.)

"And I am sure you'll spend hours reveling in the impressive irony," Snape said, rather impatiently. "I, however, do not wish to dwell on it at present, as I have work to do. As always, Auriga, it was maddening-"

"Oh no!" I said, and sat on the desk. (Desperate times call for desperate measures. I still was not trying to seduce Severus Snape. Hah. Disgusting. Ew.) "You're going to tell me what's going on! I don't see why on earth I should believe you!"

"And I don't see why you are entangled in the entire situation in the first place," Snape returned smoothly.

I resisted the urge to mutter 'bastard,' and instead replied, "I am because I'm observant, you know! I notice things!"

"Is that so?" Snape asked, and raised an eyebrow at me.

"Yes, that's so!" I responded defensively.

It just so happened that I hadn't noticed I was, in fact, sitting in the spilt ink.

But _really_! Just because that particular unfortunate incident occurred, it doesn't mean that I'm never observant!

But try telling Snape that.

Try telling him _anything_.

He won't believe you, you know. He'll just sneer and make a bunch of snappish comments and wind up making you into a complete idiot.

I hate him sometimes.

Anyhow, I decided to preserve my dignity and act as though I weren't aware of the fact that the ink was with each second causing the impending destruction of my favourite robes. "Just tell me why I should believe you."

"You needn't believe me, Auriga," he responded. "I do not find it necessary to acquire your approval of my actions. You are not my mother, after all. However, I do fail to see how it would be to my benefit to kill Harry Potter in clear view of everyone. If I were to do it, to actually kill the ignorant spawn of James Potter, I would do it correctly, in a way that no one would ever be able to connect back to me."

Which, you know, actually kind of made sense. It seemed a bit ridiculous that Snape would attempt to kill Harry Potter in front of all those people. After all, he's more the type that would trick you into a dark corner and then threaten you within an inch of your life, sounding perfectly composed all the while, until you just died of fright.

Sick bastard.

"But then why were you muttering at the Quidditch match?" I asked, but I was feeling a bit less energized by now, on account of the fact that he'd managed to counter every bit of evidence I'd had against him. Like him, really.

"My, my," Snape said, looking far too amused. "I am aware that you aren't the most impressive of witches, but surely even you recognize a counter-jinx when you see one?"

To which I replied, in a truly intelligent and dazzling fashion, ". . . oh. Right."

"Now, if you don't have any other ridiculous accusations to hurl my way, then I'd appreciate it if you were to remove yourself from my presence."

Honestly. The man is a dreadful recluse. I had, by then, accepted that perhaps Snape wasn't evil – just a very, very nasty bastard – and figured that perhaps we could form some sort of partnership.

. . . Not like _that_.

You're right sick-minded, you stupid little notebook. I don't suppose anyone has ever told you that before.

You know – a platonic partnership! A partnership against Quirrell and his, er, evil ways (I feel stupid even writing it – it's just that he's a bit pathetic, to be evil) – that way, we could ensure that he wouldn't attempt to kill poor Harry again.

But, of course, Snape didn't even suggest such a thing.

So, naturally, I had to.

"Don't you think we should _do_ something?" I asked. "I mean, he could do something terrible – there's no telling what his next move is!"

"I have him under control for the time being," Snape responded steadily, just moving on to another essay to grade and not even looking up at me. I supposed I should have demanded some respect, but at the moment I was a bit surprised by what he'd just said.

"Under control?"

"I assure you, Auriga, the present situation contains nothing to worry about," Snape said, looking downright annoyed now but still managing to sound for the most part quite calm. How he does that, I'll never know. When I'm annoyed, it tends to be slightly visible.

And sometimes results in the throwing of coffee mugs.

"And," he continued, "if I ever find myself desperately in need of your . . . assistance," [insert sneer here], "—I will no doubt inform you right away. Now, if you'd be so kind as to—"

Well, by that time, my annoyance was slightly visible, so I just jumped off the desk, informed him, "Fine, fine, you great evil bat, but you'll be sorry when you find you need my help!" and stormed out of there.

I think I may have heard him laughing to himself as I left.

Uuughhh. Unnatural.

Stupid bastard.

But on the bright side, at least now I know what's really going on around here.

. . . kind of.

. . . Maybe.

**3:26 P.M.**

. . . _Quirrell_?

** Monday, November 11, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**8:12 A.M.**

Well, that was a bit odd.

Victoria just walked in and, sounding a bit odd, asked if Snape had attempted to talk to me about "anything peculiar" lately.

I was about to just say no, figuring that she was just desperately searching for more evidence for her "I know you subconsciously _loooove_ him, Auriga!" case file, but then I recalled that chat in the courtyard that could certainly be construed as strange.

"Yes, I suppose so," I told her, feeling a bit suspicious. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," she said, and went over to talk to Flitwick. But it was the sort of 'oh, no reason' that clearly meant 'I know but I don't want you to know I know and by Merlin, _I'm_ certainly not going to tell you anything oh no instead I think I'll just casually abandon you in favour of a man who's barely three feet tall!'

I am quite sure that she's up to something.

But what it could be, I have no clue.

Let me tell you, Notebook, if things get any stranger around here, I may just have to change my name and flee to Jamaica for a bit of rest and relaxation.

And don't you _dare_ say I haven't earned it.

**8:16 A.M.**

. . . When did I start capitalizing 'notebook'?

**8:17 A.M.**

Oh dear.


	16. A Beautiful Mind?

** Friday, November 15, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**3:32 A.M.**

Aaaurgh!

It is official. I lack Snape's alarming ability to show absolutely no concern whatsoever when cursed with the knowledge that there is _evil among us_. I mean, I'm quite sure that it's perfectly understandable, and that anyone who wasn't a completely psychologically unhinged bastard would be a bit antsy, but it's driving me mad. Honestly. I keep having all of these . . . nightmares.

And you see, once I have them, they manage to haunt me throughout the entirety of the day. To the point where I may or may not get a bit jumpy at small noises and have developed a new phobia of turning corners in the corridors for fear of bumping into . . . some people.

But it's not as though I'm being strange or pathetic or anything of the like! Quirrell is _evil_. He's a faithful servant of You-Know-Who whose two objectives in life are currently to sneak past Cerberus's second cousin and to off Harry Potter. I've given up going in the teacher's lounge, even. There's always this chance that I'll wind up in there alone with him, and . . .

Stop it. Don't think I'm any sort of coward. It's just that with his finesse regarding the Dark Arts, he may even be able to look into my eyes and see right through me; realize that I am all too aware of his secret. Legilimency is not unheard of, you know!

And then he'll _kill me_.

And, you see, this is rather what the nightmares are like. They also tend to involve Herman sporting a black cloak and cackling quite diabolically indeed; this is disturbing for a number of reasons, the first of which is that iguanas cannot cackle.

I don't think.

I had the first one the night after Snape and I had our little discussion. I didn't bother recording it in here, as I've noticed that I tend to, er, dwell on things that I write down in here, and I hardly wanted to become fixated on the fact that Quirrell could very well murder us all.

Luckily for me (and, all right, somewhat predictably), I did anyway.

Every single night, I have these awful dreams, and it's driving me absolutely mad. I figured it might be best if I just stopped writing in here; the temptation would be too great to ramble about the nightmares if I were to start writing, and besides, the fact that I am capitalizing 'Notebook' is probably enough to land me in St. Mungo's for at least five years.

But I can't bear it anymore. My mind is swimming with little cloaked iguanas, and I need somewhere to sort out my thoughts.

Firstly, I am perfectly aware that I should just go to Dumbledore. God knows why Snape hasn't done so already, and if he isn't going to take matters into his own hands, then I should just do it, shouldn't I? I mean, it would be a bit vexing if I didn't do anything and then someone wound up dead because of it.

Just a bit.

This wouldn't even be like the Professor Ford incident, where I warned everyone and no one listened to me. This would be _my fault_.

. . . Poor Professor Ford. I rather liked him. He used to mumble indistinctly and furrow up his eyebrows whenever Snape came into the room. Once, he even hurled a sugar quill in his direction and managed to get him in the eye. Accidentally, of course. And Snape couldn't do anything, of course, because even though he _is_ a non-evil bastard, you can't very well go cursing one hundred and ninety-three year old wizards. It just isn't done.

And for the record, it wasn't really a full-out, evil sort of laugh, when I found out he'd died. Just a small one; a second of satisfaction. It was a bit empowering to know that everyone's been wrong all these years about not listening to me. But just a second, mind you. I mean, I cried afterwards, and everything, when it really sunk in. As a matter of fact, the next time I went into Honeydukes during a Hogsmeade weekend, I saw a box of sugar quills and burst into tears. I got so hysterical that eventually Dumbledore forced Snape to escort me to the Three Broomsticks for something that might 'calm me down a bit.' I'm quite sure, however, that Dumbledore didn't request the Firewhisky. And, well, I don't exactly behave wonderfully with a bit of alcohol in my system. That was probably all Snape's sick idea. I vaguely remember referring to him as 'sweetheart.'

It's disturbing, really, how he derives amusement. He needs to find some other way to spend his time – he can get a hobby, or a pet. Maybe a puppy. Or an iguana.

. . . Oh, right. That's where I was.

I knew we'd get back to the point eventually.

That whole tangent was quite deliberate, as a matter of fact.

Really.

I suppose that I'm just subconsciously trying to dance around the point, which is that this is driving me mad. I should just go to Dumbledore, but I have no clue as to whether he'd actually believe me, and I know that Snape isn't going to back me up in that area. And I would do something really brave and heroic – confront Quirrell or the like – if it weren't for the fact that this would probably end poorly. And with my untimely demise.

Snape would probably laugh.

But then he'd miss me, you know.

The next time he saw a coffee mug, he'd probably break down and sob. Probably hasn't cried in ages, if ever. But he'll just look at that coffee mug, and he'll realize how much I meant to him, truly, even if he had never really allowed himself to acknowledge that while I was still with him. And then –

I'm going off-topic again, aren't I?

But the thing is that I just haven't any clue what I'm supposed to do. I'm awful at secrets. Truly, truly terrible. Like . . . like when I came home from school the summer after fifth year, and Lyra – who was seventeen at the time – told me that she'd slept with her boyfriend. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone; she made that very clear. But I just couldn't _look_ at her the same way! Let me tell you, No - notebo - you, it very nearly drove me mad. It didn't help, I suppose, that I was sixteen and hadn't so much as kissed anyone yet. But the idea that my sister had done . . . well, _that_ , and I was the only person that happened to know – besides, I would hope, the bloke she did it with – was somewhat pressuring.

I had no intention to tell anyone. I was completely prepared to take it to the grave with me. All right, so the subject was a bit, er, mature. But that didn't mean that I wasn't able to handle it! Days flew by, and I was perfectly fine. A bit more skittish, maybe, and a little nervous whenever anyone asked me anything, but beyond all that, you know, I was doing quite well, really.

Until one night at dinner over beef stew when I sort of accidentally let it slip to my parents. I remember that it was beef stew because Lyra poured hers over my head.

And that was just _sex_! This is the potential doom of the wizarding world!

I don't _ask_ for people to tell me these things. Honestly. I don't ever _want_ to get involved.

I suppose it's just a curse. And somehow in the mix, other lovely things get thrown in. Things like house elves, and purple skin, and iguanas. Sometimes with cloaks.

I am the unluckiest person on the planet.

**3:44 A.M.**

Though in retrospect, I suppose it's quite lucky that Lyra didn't kill me.

**3:45 A.M.**

Not for lack of trying, of course. And I didn't come out of the whole ordeal easily, either. In addition to the stew, I also tripped over a strategically placed plant and broke my toe, apparently misplaced all of my summer homework in the neighbors' slightly evil Doberman's kennel, and was tricked into attending a showing of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ thanks to an address mix-up and an innocent desire to see _A Star Is Born_.

It was honestly the most insane thing I have ever witnessed.

There was even thrown toast.

**3:47 A.M.**

And personally, I think she was overreacting a bit. I mean, don't they always say that you should be mature and responsible in order to consider having sex and facing the consequences?

It seems quite immature to attempt to kill your little sister.

Just a point.

**3:48 A.M.**

All right, admittedly, my dad didn't speak for an entire day after he'd found out.

**3:49 A.M.**

And when he finally regained the ability, he yelled at her for three hours and forty-five minutes. Consecutively.

**3:50 A.M.**

And locked her in her bedroom.

**3:51 A.M.**

And stole my mother's wand, asked her nonchalantly 'what that killing curse was again,' and then promptly stormed over to my sister's boyfriend's house and screamed 'abracadabra!' at his bedroom window for around twenty minutes until the police finally showed up.

**3:52 A.M.**

But still.

** Saturday, November 16, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**7:27 A.M.**

Note to self: do not reminisce about family disasters before bed, lest you might be plagued by bizarre dreams involving not-quite-platonic-partnership dealings with Snape, Herman the iguana cape-clad and brandishing a sugar quill while screeching out 'abracadabra!' whilst Wimmy looks on with tears streaming down his face, and being forced to drown in a sea of beef stew for all of eternity.

Sometimes, I truly hate my mind.

**Sunday, November 17. 1991**

**AstronomyTower**

**1:02 P.M.**

I can't live like this much longer.

I woke up this morning from another one of the nightmares.

With Herman, mind. And a dementedly cackling Quirrell. And no Snape at all. And therefore no naked Snape. Because I've really never thought such things. Honestly. As a matter of fact, that whole portion of the dream was really quite hazy; I can't remember it at all. It was more the situation than the actual . . .

And I honestly doubt that, if he were to for some reason kiss my throat, it would yield the sort of reaction that it, er, might have in the dream. Which I have no idea if it did. Because I can't remember it.

ALGERNON.

ALGERNON.

ALGERNON.

**1:09 P.M.**

Er. Just thought I'd, you know, bring him up. As I haven't lately, and I figured that you might be a bit curious about how he's doing, and all – he's quite fine; I just had an owl from him; thanks for asking.

Notebook.

Um. And back to the subject of dreaming.

Because I had a nightmare. There was a dark corridor, which I was walking through. And then Quirrell was at the end of it, whispering something about how I'd figured out his secret and now I would pay. He and Herman had me cornered. There was no escape. And just as he'd started to utter the Killing Curse, I woke up.

Perfectly suitable for audiences of all ages, thank you very much.

Not to say it wasn't frightening.

So I decided, quite simply, that I wouldn't take it anymore. I was going to Dumbledore, and there was nothing Snape could do to stop me!

. . . But still, I figured I might as well check in with him first before I went all the way to Dumbledore's office, and all.

I didn't exactly bother to get dressed up nicely, as it was just Snape, and this was a mortal peril sort of situation; looking stunning was not exactly an important issue. Besides, I didn't want him to think that I was attempting to dress up for him, or anything. Because that would imply that there was some sort of attraction between us. Which may or may not have resulted in questionable subconscious—

Anyway.

So I went to his bedroom quarters to inform him that I was going to Dumbledore, regardless of what he might say to try to stop me. I figured he had a right to know, after all, as he is my partner.

In the fight against evil.

The platonic fight against evil.

Which does not involve throat-kissing.

Erm.

Anyhow. So I went and told him that. Except for the throat-kissing part. He told me in return, quite confidently, that I would do no such thing. Hah! As if he had any say in the matter.

"Why shouldn't I?" I asked, and crossed my arms in front of my chest defiantly. It was a sort of situation that required defiance, I figured.

"Because," he replied smoothly, "This is a matter that does not require Dumbledore's concern."

"Someone's in league with You-Know-Who and attempting to murder Harry Potter and it doesn't require Dumbledore's concern?"

Sometimes I honestly think he's a bit mad.

Well, perhaps more often than sometimes.

But sometimes it seems particularly clear.

"As I already told you, Auriga, I have Quirrell perfectly under control for the time being." Then he took on that all-too-familiar sort of condescending expression he likes to wear when he's around me, all smirking and superior. Bastard. "I can assure you that he will not be murdering you in your sleep any time soon." He then felt compelled to throw in "Pity" in a sort of undertone that was perfectly audible.

Hmph.

We'll just see if he feels the same way after Quirrell's killed me and all he's got left is a coffee mug.

And let me tell you, the 'pity' remark set me off a bit.

"I don't know why I shouldn't be allowed to tell him! This is important, you know!" Then, on a sudden note of inspiration, I threw in quite viciously, "Your twisted vendetta against Harry Potter doesn't give you the right to hold back information! I bet you'd _like_ to see him killed."

That got him angry, all right.

Which may or may not have been smart of me, but at the time it was quite satisfying.

"That's a very clever theory you've invented," he said in that low, dangerous sort of voice, stepping closer to me. It was somewhat terrifying, but damned if I was going to start backing up or whimpering or doing anything that might expose the fact that I wasn't exactly at ease.

"Very clever indeed," he continued silkily. "I suppose you think that I would just allow an innocent boy's murder to satisfy some personal . . . vendetta, did you say?" He was approximately six inches away from me by then. It may or may not have been somewhat . . . intense. In a bad and frightening way, of course. "Unlike the majority of this world's inhabitants, Auriga," he finished, eyes flashing in a sinister sort of way as he practically whispered the last words, "I do not act upon my . . . desires."

My knees went oddly weak at that, and I sort of sunk backwards onto the bed. Strange reaction to absolute terror, I suppose. Because I was without a doubt absolutely . . . terrified. And nothing else.

At all.

"I see," I managed to reply in a very weak sort of way. At the time, it seemed like quite the impressive accomplishment.

He didn't even pay the slightest bit of attention to this, though. Instead, he was . . . and for a few seconds I was absolutely sure that I was imagining it . . .

Staring at my neck.

It took me a moment to register this. It took another moment to refrain from having a heart attack. By the time I'd reached yet another moment, I realized that it was very, very strange that he was still staring.

And then, in this very sudden, oddly fluid sort of movement, he came closer and thank God I was sitting down because I honestly thought he was going to—

. . . Kill me.

Right. Exactly. Because of the . . . terror. And the fact that he probably really, really has a desire to.

Kill me.

Yes.

So, I was a bit, er, nervous, on account of the . . . death as he reached over, brushed my hair away from my neck – I was quite nervous by now, really, to the point where I'd rather forgotten how to breathe – and asked, in a very sharp sort of way, "What is this?"

"I . . . don't know?" I choked out meekly.

He continued the intense staring for a moment – I really was a bit dizzy; lack of oxygen, and such – before proclaiming, "Ink."

"Ink?" I repeated, very blankly, before recalling that I had, in fact, fallen asleep over my lesson plans the following night.

He sneered slightly and backed away, striding over to his desk on the opposite side of the room.

"I suppose you fell asleep over that quaint little chronicle of your life that you keep so faithfully?" he said dryly. "Spilling out all your utmost secrets."

"I don't have any secrets," I returned, figuring there was no way he could find out about the throat thing.

Er.

I mean, I told him the truth.

Because I really don't have any.

Secrets, I mean.

In any case, he raised an eyebrow at me, thoroughly skeptical. "Is that so?"

"Yes!" I said boldly.

This apparently didn't satisfy him. "No scintillating details about that charming idiot who's so," and here he threw in an extra dash of sarcasm; just for good measure, I'd imagine, "-fortunate as to have wound up with you?"

". . . No." I really was telling the truth that time, too. I'm not quite sure that anything that's happened between Algernon and I counts as 'scintillating,' precisely.

"I see," Snape said then, sounding alarmingly pensive.

This reminded me for some reason of that bizarre conversation in the courtyard, which in turn made me recall Victoria's little inquiry from a few days ago.

Feeling quite brave, I asked, "Do you want to ask me something?"

He stared at me like he'd just been caught singing Celestina Warbeck in the shower, or something of the like. "What gives you that idea?"

"You just . . ." I couldn't, however, think of anything to back myself up beyond that, and so I went back to the point of the thing and demanded, "Well, do you?"

"Of course not," he snapped, seeming unusually annoyed. "Contrary to your delusional beliefs, Auriga, I seldom waste my time and energy focusing upon you unless it proves absolutely necessary."

Which really was a bit unnecessarily hateful, if you ask me.

"Fine," I replied, quite composed if I do say so myself. "I won't waste any more of your time, then."

"Good," he said shortly, already beginning to leaf through pieces of parchment on his desk.

 _Really_. I doubt his mother ever taught him anything regarding social interaction.

. . . Of course, mine _did_ , and that didn't exactly do an incredible amount.

But at least I don't blatantly ignore people!

(Well, for the most part, anyway.)

And so I left, figuring there was no point in spending any more time in his despicable, maternal-influence-devoid company. After all, I have things to do besides argue with him and lose large amounts of air while he stares at my neck! I was hardly going to give him the impression that I actually had any sort of interest whatsoever in him by sticking around.

Bastard.

**1:18 P.M.**

I hate him, you know. Quite truly and passionately. It's the kind of hate that nothing – even, y'know, incredibly divine throat-kissing – could ever come between.

So you can just get rid of this ridiculous little assumption that you've devised, because I am _certainly_ not infatuated with Severus Snape.

Because I have a boyfriend.

Who is not Severus Snape.

So there.

**1:20 P.M.**

And you know, before you start on that whole 'crazy-cow-talks-to-her-notebook!' tangent, perhaps I'm _not_ talking to the notebook. Perhaps I'm talking to someone who might have stolen this because their deepest desire was to engross themselves in the fascinating chronicles of my life.

If this is the case, then CLOSE THE NOTEBOOK AND BACK AWAY. Honestly. You don't want me angry with you, you know. I've got connections; I happen to know a very lewd iguana.

Somewhat intimately.

Also, my aim with a coffee mug really isn't lousy.

So I'd think twice before messing with me!

**1:21 P.M.**

Not-Notebook.

**1:22 P.M.**

That was strangely empowering.

**1:23 P.M.**

Not-Notebook.

**1:24 P.M.**

Hehehe!

**1:25 P.M.**

Er.

Don't think for a second that I'm easily amused, or that I lack a life, or anything of the like. I have plenty of important things on my agenda – keeping in touch with my highly successful boyfriend, battling the ultimate force of evil (Snape), battling the runner-up ultimate force of evil (Quirrell) . . .

And, of course, educating the young witches and wizards of the United Kingdom.

Which is incredibly important to me as well.

Really.

**1:28 P.M.**

. . . Though if I'm any sort of prime example, then I suppose I should just inform them that excelling at Astronomy will get you nowhere in life, unless you'd like to be a moderately crazy, occasionally pathetic, potentially eternally unmarried old professor who occasionally assigns huge amounts of homework just to express repressed discontent with her own life.

**1:29 P.M.**

Perhaps they should take up Underwater Basketweaving instead.


	17. Worthy of Nabokov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Me @ Young Me:** Dork, Snape ain't sittin' around reading Nabokov!!!!!!!!!
> 
> (I think I was just really proud that I had heard of Vladimir Nabokov.)
> 
> Also, I truly apologize for this turn of events. Why Past Me thought this was a valid plotline to pursue, I haven't the foggiest. Trigger warning: basically that "Does Your Mother Know" scene from Mamma Mia????

** Wednesday, November 20, 1991 **

**AstronomyTower**

**9:40 P.M.**

Oh. Oh, dear God.

**9:41 P.M.**

Perhaps I'm just misunderstanding things. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. (Though damned if I will admit this to anyone. Anyone being Snape, naturally.)

At least . . . I hope I'm misunderstanding things.

Though this seems frighteningly clear.

**9:42 P.M.**

There _is_ no other known interpretation of the phrase "I wouldn't kick her out of bed," is there?

**9:43 P.M.**

Well, really! There very well could be. It just requires a bit of rational thought. Say, for instance, two people who are _very much_ romantically disinclined toward one another indeed somehow wound up trapped in a room together. And the room only had one bed, and the woman happened to fall asleep on it, leaving the . . . man exhausted, yet obligated to allow her to remain there in peaceful slumber because that's just the sort of gentleman he is. Hence, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed . . . _because I am a gentleman_."

**9:45 P.M.**

That isn't the faintest bit likely, is it?

**9:46 P.M.**

This is worse than house elves.

**9:47 P.M.**

Well . . .

**9:48 P.M.**

Yes. Decidedly worse. In that it is ILLEGAL.

**9:49 P.M.**

As is courting a house elf, I guess. But that's the kind of thing that needn't even come into consideration, because I'm certainly not that kind of girl!

**9:50 P.M.**

Nor am I the kind of girl that men don't kick out of bed.

**9:51 P.M.**

Not that I _have_ been kicked out of bed.

**9:52 P.M.**

Well, all right, once. But those were special circumstances.

**9:53 P.M.**

I've strayed from the original point, haven't I?

Well . . . good.

Because it's honestly terrifying. Unless, of course, my true-meaning-of-that-particular-phrase analysis actually holds weight, in which case I suppose it could be construed as somewhat gallant.

But . . .

**9:54 P.M.**

Why do these sorts of things always happen to me?

And this, _this_ doesn't even make any sort of sense. It's thoroughly irrational, not to mention bewildering, with a hearty dash of disturbing just for good measure. House elves, I could handle. But this? This is . . .

There is someone up there who likes watching me suffer. They sit there and chuckle at my incessant agony like it's some sort of Muggle sitcom. Only this would be inappropriate subject matter for any sort of sitcom, so for the love of God, _can they just leave me alone_?

**9:56 P.M.**

. . . Please?

**10:00 P.M.**

I am never, _never_ looking at the back of a homework assignment I'm grading out of idle curiosity again. As I have learned from this something-beyond-unfortunate incident, it can lead to only one thing. That thing being _utter agony_.

Oh, Notebook. What's the point in hiding it anymore?

CHRISTOPHER GOLDSTEIN IS IN LOVE WITH ME.

**10:01 P.M.**

Which I would've, admittedly, been rather thrilled about if I were still sixteen. He's quite handsome for his age. No Sirius Black, or anything, but this may very well be a good thing. I mean, look how he turned out. Not exactly Witch Weekly Bachelor of the Year material, now, is he?

He's actually got a bit of a Gilderoy Lockhart resemblance going on – blue eyes and blonde hair, and even that very charmingly defined jaw line. Not to mention

**10:02 P.M.**

FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, THE BOY IS SIXTEEN.

And this doesn't mean that I'm any sort of . . . woman of questionable morals, so don't you even begin to go thinking that! It's just that I'm so thoroughly shocked at this discovery that it's temporarily stolen away every bit of my sanity. And therefore has left me to objectively describe the boy's slight resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart. Which certainly doesn't mean that I have any interest in him whatsoever.

**10:03 P.M.**

No! Honestly. I _don't_.

Because that . . . that's sick. That's what that is.

And I may be many things, but here is where I draw the line!

**10:04 P.M.**

I suppose this makes me the Whore with the Heart of Gold of Hogwarts.

Except for the whore part.

**10:05 P.M.**

Oh, _really_.

**10:06 P.M.**

But, y'know, now that I think about it, I'm certainly not the sick one in this situation! I have no interest in him besides, well, his general well-being as a Hogwarts pupil and therefore one of my many responsibilities as an educator.

 _He's_ the one who wouldn't kick _me_ out of bed.

How's that for sick!

**10:07 P.M.**

By the way, if the tables happened to be turned, I would certainly kick _him_ out of bed. Ugh! Teenage boys these days – really, what sort of behaviour is that?

**10:08 P.M.**

All right. So we've firmly established that I'm not some sort of sick child molesting monster. The next step is simply to figure out how, exactly, I'm going to put an end to all of this. If I looked like, say, Victoria, I would just forsake makeup for a few days and ignore my hair until it turned into a Godawful mess, but as it is, well, I _have_ forsaken makeup. Y'know, as a valid life choice. And my hair is nothing if not a Godawful mess.

Clearly, the boy's judgment is severely skewed.

**10:10 P.M.**

Perhaps I can just get Algernon to threaten him. Y'know, in a subtle sort of way.

Or a blatant sort of way. One can't afford to be picky in situations such as these!

**10:11 P.M.**

That's probably not the most admirable action a professor could take, is it?

**10:12 P.M.**

But – but I –

**10:13 P.M.**

Oh, fine. It's immature and notably cruel.

But I can't let that discourage me! I need to think of something! This cannot go on, or by this time next week I'll be certifiably insane.

**10:14 P.M.**

And, for the record, I am in fact not certifiably insane at the present time. So there.

**10:15 P.M.**

_This must end._

Think, Auriga! Think!

**10:29 P.M.**

Think!

**10:42 P.M.**

Think!

**10:59 P.M.**

Maybe . . .

**11:00 P.M.**

No. That probably wouldn't go over too well with the Ministry of Magic. Really, they're so terribly conservative these days.

**11:23 P.M.**

Think!

**12:02 P.M.**

Oh, fine.

I surrender.

I'm doomed.

**12:08 P.M.**

And for the record, his smile isn't nearly as dazzling as Gilderoy Lockhart's, either. I should know, because I passed him (Christopher, not Gilderoy) in the hall earlier, and he sort of grinned at me and said "Hello, Professor."

. . . _He sort of grinned at me and said "Hello, Professor."_

And whilst doing so, who really _knows_ what sorts of thoughts were actually flowing through his overtly hormonal, adolescent-boy mind!

Ugh!

**12:10 P.M.**

If Snape ever finds out about this . . .

Well – well, I can't even bring myself to finish the sentence. Which is clearly an indication of how horrific such a circumstance would be. I mean, you saw (or, well, no you didn't, but it's not as though you can very well contradict me, now can you, which begs the question why am I even contradicting myself if this is the case? I am truly mad.) – all right, you _heard_ the way that he reacted when I first got involved with Algernon. And Algernon's older than me! There is no pesky fifteen-year age difference which renders me something akin to Grandmother Sexy.

. . . Well, all right, perhaps not grandmother. I don't even want to think about how that might happen. Maybe Unfortunate Teenage Mother Sexy. Or Somewhat Cool Reasonably Young Aunt Sexy.

Come to think of it, I may be onto something there . . .

**12:13 P.M.**

No, no! Don't mind me, Notebook, and don't you dare dream of holding anything I might say here against me. I'm in a state of extreme shock and horror, mind. Anyone would go a bit crazy.

In any case, there are a thousand things wrong with this situation because I am _not_ sexy and I am his _teacher_ and yet he is passing notes to Arnold Cabot about not kicking me out of a nonexistent and _thoroughly hypothetical_ bed while he is _supposed_ to be listening to a lecture about the moons of Jupiter.

I . . .

Need sleep.

Or guidance.

Or a personal suite in St. Mungo's.

Yes, I wasn't exactly keen on the place when I was there the first time, but it suddenly seems quite shiny and appealing in comparison to this. Perhaps I'll suffer another unfortunate house-elf prompted breakdown, in which they have no choice but to take me back in. And I suppose I could be happy there – I mean, being around people with _true_ mental problems and magical ailments might put me through some sort of epiphany. You know – the sort of thing that will cause me to recognize how good I actually have it.

Because there is good, of course! There's plenty of good. And house elves. And frizzy hair. And bratty Slytherins on power trips to tend to. And evil plots all a-stir within the walls of this castle that I am apparently not allowed to inform anyone about for no given reason whatsoever. And Snape. And an iguana that has managed to redefine lechery. And my best friend and worst enemy engaged in some mysterious conspiracy that I barely even have time to worry about. And the sixteen year old boy that wants to make me his Somewhat Cool Reasonably Young Aunt Sexy. And no, I do not know how incest somehow got thrown into this cesspool of general havoc.

Is it sad that the best thing about all of this is Snape?

I should certainly think so.

Hmph. Snape. My apparent newfound fondness for him only cements precisely how terrible everything else is. An embittered, hair care potion-inept bastard with the social skills of an elephant suffering the throes of dementia provides my will to carry on.

Which is just _splendid_.

**12:19 P.M.**

Well, and there's Algernon, of course. I don't know how I managed to leave him out – he is, after all, the sole most perfect thing that has ever happened to me.

And, don't you know, that's probably why. I simply must keep him entirely separated from the madness and mayhem of my perpetually troubled existence, lest he should become tainted.

Not that he could.

But . . . well, you know.

Safety precaution.

**12:23 P.M.**

In any case, Christopher Goldstein's impassioned and highly inappropriate ardor for yours truly will be stopped. Tomorrow. Somehow.

I'm sure I'll think of something. It's not as though I've ever had any trouble driving men away before.

** Thursday, November 21, 1991 **

**Great Hall**

**7:52 A.M.**

Help me.

He won't stop looking at me.

Perhaps I'm imagining it. I mean, any girl stuck in this situation would have a right to a bit of paranoia, right? But – but the thing is, I'm quite sure I'm not. I just looked up from staring forlornly into my cereal to see his head shooting down. Which implies that he was staring at me – probably plagued with forbidden, lust-consumed thoughts – and looked down so I wouldn't see the passion smoldering in his eyes.

Oh, _God._ All I want to know is why. Why does this happen to me?

That's something I would very much like to know.

But maybe . . . maybe he was staring at Snape. As he's next to me, and all, and some of the students seem to hold a bit of a fascination with him. They probably wonder how he manages to be so evil and greasy on an everyday basis. It _is_ quite impressive, really, in a repulsive sort of way.

Yes, yes. That's just it. He's not staring at me. Because . . .

Because it's sick and bad and very, very wrong. That's why.

Lustful thoughts and bacon should not be combined. It's just one of the basic universal truths of the earth.

**7:55 A.M.**

Perhaps they ought to teach that here.

Y'know, I'm sure Minerva could find some way of working it into Transfiguration. Or perhaps I could scribble it on one of Binns' History of Magic note cards when he wasn't looking, you know. Just so this doesn't happen again.

Not that he's even really, officially, _for sure_ staring.

But just in case.

**7:59 A.M.**

Snape just leaned over and murmured, in that smooth, silky, bastardly way he has, "You seem to have quite the ardent admirer at the Ravenclaw table, Auriga. How very touched you must be."

Which means not only that other people are noticing it, therefore it must be true, but also that _Snape knows_.

And knowing him and the sick, twisted way his mind works, he'll probably assume that I like it or something.

Ugh.

I have to get out of here before my head explodes.

**AstronomyTower**

**8:12 A.M.**

All right. I'm safe now. No one comes up here until nighttime, anyway, on account of the fact that it's really not all that romantic without starlight, and it's not as though we can have classes during the day. As a matter of fact, it's somewhat dismal up here in the daylight.

But it's better than . . . other places.

And now that I'm on my own, I'd best devise some sort of strategy. The next time I see him, I'll just . . . be hopelessly cruel? Take a liberal amount of points from Ravenclaw if he sneezes while I'm talking? That doesn't seem right somehow. For one thing, I like to be fair to all my students.

Well, except the Slytherins.

But it's not as though he _is_ a Slytherin. He's just trying to seduce me. That's all.

. . . I almost think I've built up a bit of a bias toward that particular house somewhere along the line.

Hmm.

Anyhow, I don't want to take points from Ravenclaw. As I was one, you know. And, well, it's not as though I'd be taking points for any real _reason_ besides my apparent sexiness, and there is simply no logic in that particular course of action.

I'll just have to

**8:50 A.M.**

_IS NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE!_

I ask you. Notebook, I just . . . _tell me this_. Forget your inanimate state and sprout some sort of brain for a second just to answer me that question which I already happen to know the answer to but well excuse me I'm a bit insane right now and after I tell you why I think you'll agree that I absolutely have the right to be insane as a matter of fact I earned the right to be insane quite awhile ago and might as well start exercising it now because oh Notebook anyone, _anyone_ would be insane if they had to deal with what I had to deal with as if everything else is not _ENOUGH_.

. . . Ahem.

I just had a visit from Christopher. Yes, yes, that's right. Apparently, nothing _is_ sacred. No place is safe. I was just sitting there, absently harboring fantasies of a world in which he didn't harbor fantasies of me, when suddenly – there he was. Right behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder. He _touched_ my _shoulder_. It was probably the single most thrilling experience of his life – that's precisely how sick this is, Notebook. It has surpassed all previous levels of sickness. And I haven't the faintest idea how to get out of it without, y'know, committing a bit of manslaughter and potentially getting in a bit of trouble.

Perhaps I could ask Snape – y'know, nonchalantly – about how one might do that. Kill someone, I mean, without leaving any sort of visible trail. I'm sure he's done it loads of times – he's a former Death Eater, and besides, his mind is just precisely that breed of diabolical.

Not really. I'm just kidding, you know. Don't think I'm not. (About the asking Snape thing, not the diabolical thing – the diabolical thing is quite true indeed, as we both know.) I am not going to kill Christopher. That would be wrong.

Not to say that he doesn't deserve it, at least a bit.

Where was I?

Ah, yes.

He tapped me on the shoulder.

(Shudder.)

I screamed, turned around, screamed, slammed my notebook shut, and screamed. In that order. The thing is, vaguely psychotic displays like that just come naturally to me – you think that would be enough to drive him away. Any other student would have widened their eyes at me in what is unmistakably a frightened manner and stammered out some excuse before turning and running down all two hundred and sixty-three steps. I know this because it's happened before. Just once or twice, mind. And – and, well, I dare you to read one of Moira K. Mockridge's thrillers without getting a bit jumpy! She doesn't only do romance, you know. She can be downright creepy, Moira K. Mockridge can, and you really shouldn't sneak up on a person when they're right in the middle of the most climactic scene in the novel! Honestly. That should just be common sense. Maybe I'll sneak it onto one of Binns' note cards – you know, along with the bacon thing.

Anyhow.

Christopher just stared at me with this blithe sort of smile, like watching his teacher scream her head off was not disturbing at all and actually rather pleasant. It was the sort of expression that one normally wears when they are watching a particularly nice ballet, or enjoying a sundae from Fortescue's, or something along those lines. He is clearly very, very enamoured, or a psychopath. Probably both.

And then, well, I had to take a moment and wonder as to whether he was actually there or whether my frenzied and delusional mind had just conjured him up, in a Shakespearean-tragedy sort of way. (I'm beginning to share traits with Macbeth. Something tells me that this should be at least slightly unnerving.) And, well, you can't quite be sure something is there unless you touch it, right?

I understand in retrospect how very stupid this was. It was clearly the work of a greater force driving me to drown myself in an even deeper and murkier lake of misery. But . . . but, well, _you know_. It was an instinct sort of thing!

And so I reached out and sort of . . . placed my hand on his chest. Kind of tentatively, and don't you look at me like the way you'd be looking at me if you actually had the ability to look at me, Notebook! For all I knew, my hand could have gone right through him, which would just be confirmation of precisely how bonkers I'd gone.

Instead, he was all solid, and . . . all right, slightly muscular. BUT I DON'T CARE, SO DON'T YOU GET ANY IDEAS. I'm just documenting the facts as they happened to take place! _That is all._

And – you know those moments that just dote upon slowing down for you, just so it can be thoroughly and irreversibly captured precisely how awful it is? Now, usually, this kind of thing reserves itself for when I discover that I am accidentally seducing Snape, or when I am driven to lock lips with a house elf. But this – this apparently merited one of those sorts of moments as well, because there we were, with my hand on his chest and him looking up at me with this slow sort of awe and his heartbeat about tripling (I could tell, on account of my hand being there and all). It was the sort of thing that I know I will remember until I'm a hundred and twenty-six and alone and miserable with nineteen cats and no recollection of the wonderful things that have happened during my lifetime. (Because wonderful things have to happen sometime within the next ninety-five years, don't they? At least one wonderful thing? Please? How about something faintly pleasant? I'll settle for faintly pleasant.) I will have no idea that my name is Auriga, or that I was once upon a time the most celebrated romance novelist in the wizarding world. Nor will I be able to recall those fabulous two months spent with Gilderoy Lockhart in Bermuda. (Shut up.) Despite having forgotten all this, I will still remember, with absolute clarity, the time I accidentally felt up my sixteen year old student to make sure he wasn't a ghost, in manner of that king Macbeth's mad wife offed.

Well, after the twenty-six years that seemed to compose that single moment, I was finally struck with the ability to move again and pulled my hand away as quickly as I could. He looked rather disappointed. Ugh. _UGH._

"Oh," I was able to manage, as nonchalantly as possible. "Christopher. Hello. You . . . startled me."

"Sorry about that," he said, but in this way that actually meant 'Sorry? Hah! My teacher had her hands all over me! She so wants me.'

I am a genius when it comes to deciphering subtext.

I chose, however, not to acknowledge the clear underlying meaning of his words aloud. Instead, I continued to speak, in the most professional way that I could manage, considering he probably wanted to rip my shirt off.

"It's . . . all right." Hah. Hardly! "What do you want?"

The word 'want,' when the air is laden with unwelcome sexual tension, is not exactly appropriate. I am making note of this for future reference.

He sort of stared at me for a moment, in this way where I could very skillfully interpret the answer to that question, before putting his hands in his pockets in a casual sort of way and saying, "I'm having a bit of trouble in class."

"Oh, really?" I said, but in this way that actually meant 'Well, then, for the love of God, you nasty little prat, stop thinking inappropriate thoughts about me and pay attention!'

His subtext-deciphering skills clearly pale in comparison to my own, because he just nodded in this very earnest way and said, "Oh, yeah. I'm just having a bit of trouble understanding the star charts."

Which was really just a disgustingly weak excuse. Even an inappropriately lovestruck fool should be able to come up with something better than that.

"Well," I said, in the most patronizing manner I could, "you see, Christopher, you look at the sky through the telescope, and then mark on the chart what you're observing. I think you'll find that it's really not all that difficult."

And at the moment I was feeling quite triumphant indeed – it was very satisfying to be at least a bit unnecessarily bitchy to him. He'd earned it, after all.

But then, not the least bit disheartened, he just went, "Y'know, I think I'd understand it much better if you showed me sometime."

I have never been dropped into a gigantic vat filled with eels, but I imagine that what I felt at that moment was a bit similar to that particular experience.

"All right," I said, as composedly as I could manage considering I was being sexually harassed and all. And not even in a slightly exciting way, like with Snape. Not that I think it's slightly exciting when Snape sexually harasses me. And it's not that he sexually harasses me on a regular basis or anything of the like either. It's just that . . . that "if I were on you, you wouldn't be making that request" comment left scars. And it was horrifying. Doubt that not, Notebook. It's just that . . . this was more horrifying.

Understandably, I should think.

"I'll show you in class," I finished, very professional indeed.

"I was thinking I'd get it more if you could show me one-on-one," he replied, unperturbed.

I am not sure how to recount precisely how I felt at that moment. Even the eels couldn't quite do it justice. It was, I think, something along the lines of #&#(&#( . With a hearty dose of 'ew's and 'ugh's thrown in. You know – to dull the abstractness of the statement a bit, and such.

"Well, I'm not sure that will be at all possible, Mr. Goldstein," I snapped, feeling strangely McGonagall-esque. It was somewhat empowering. I never snap at my students, and rarely do the last name thing as well. It just always seemed a bit cruel. But, oh, I was ready to be cruel. I would've willingly pushed him down the stairs at that moment if I would've been able to find a way to manage it.

"Why not?" He looked at me, all wide-eyed and slightly Lockhart-reminiscent, and in that moment, I wasn't even impressed by it. Not even in an 'oooh, I'd be ever so thrilled if I were still sixteen' sort of way. I was actually kind of . . . offended. Or very offended. Because . . . because Gilderoy Lockhart is modest and charming and has done some of the greatest things of our time, and this stupid and highly morally questionable boy had the nerve to vaguely resemble him! And let me tell you, Notebook, something about that realization just unleashed in me a fury unlike anything I've ever known. Because it's one thing to drive me past the point of madness, but it's quite another to insult Gilderoy Lockhart.

(I'm so good to him. If things don't work out with Algernon, fate will certainly bring us together somehow. Not that I don't want things to work out with Algernon. It's just that Gilderoy seems like a very good backup plan. I bet my mother would like him, and she couldn't doubt his existence, either, in the way I know she does with Algernon. One can't just say that they made Gilderoy Lockhart up. So _hah._ )

And so I said – or, well, shouted a bit, "Because _I said so_!"

He blinked, and I honestly thought for a moment that in that moment, he had recognized just how entirely mad I am.

Such was not the case.

"I suppose that's okay, then," he finally said, in this very unaffected way. "I was just hoping that maybe I could get better marks in this class. 'Cause, well, my mum – she's a bit ill right now, and they're not sure if she's going to . . ." He paused, in this very tragic sort of way – like he was allowing the angels an opportunity to weep for him, or something – before continuing. ". . . Well, anyway. She just . . . she always wanted me to get really good marks, you know?" He forced a pained smile. "To make her proud."

Now, I am 66.7 sure that this was utter nonsense, Notebook, but . . . well, on the off-chance that it wasn't, I didn't exactly want to be the sole reason that his dying mother hadn't been proud of him. That seemed a bit cruel.

Not as cruel as pining most lecherously after a woman a decade and a half older than you, but a bit.

And then he just looked at me, in this very sad sort of way, and started turning to go, and –

"Fine."

I swear, I have one thousand and forty-seven mental disorders. I don't know why I do this to myself.

He turned around and met my gaze, and his eyes were all sort of bright and shining, and . . .

"Thank you, Professor," he said in this breathless, 'I'm swallowing my tears' kind of way before disappearing down the stairs.

Why do there have to be so many stairs, anyway? I got to sit there and listen to his footsteps getting quieter and quieter but still so very obnoxiously _there_ and reflect upon the fact that one of my one thousand and forty-seven mental disorders must involve some sort of desire to inflict absolute agony upon myself.

And so as it is, Christopher Goldstein and I may as well be dating.

**9:07 A.M.**

Well, not really.

That was an embittered sort of joke.

**9:08 A.M.**

What? It _was_.

**9:09 A.M.**

Must you always doubt me, you detestable little creature! Even my inanimate, this-close-to-not-even-existing-at-all notebook can't support me!

**9:10 A.M.**

It is 9:10 in the morning, and I have suddenly been overcome with the urge to get thoroughly and completely drunk.

Sometimes, I don't even know what to think about myself.

**1:16 P.M.**

I hate Snape – I honestly and completely do; don't get me wrong there – but sometimes, I don't mind him at the same time.

I spent the morning not grading papers (I've developed a faint phobia – so sue me. Am honestly contemplating never assigning homework again) and drinking all the butterbeer that I'd managed to smuggle out of the Hogwarts kitchen. This is just proof of how desperate I am, that I would actually willingly face that many house elves, all at once. And they sort of glared at me and muttered angry things in bizarre third person under their breath, but they gave me the butterbeer, and so far, my skin hasn't turned any strange shade, and I haven't grown any new appendages or anything, so I think it might've been okay. Maybe they recognized the raw madness and desperation in my gaze and realized that I was as thoroughly distressed as it was possible to be, and there was simply no point in furthering the agony.

So, anyway, by the time lunch rolled 'round, I was slightly tipsy (very slightly. Butterbeer isn't really supposed to do anything to humans besides have that nice warm-and-fuzzy-feelings effect, but I have a few issues when it comes to holding liquor of any kind) and feeling a bit reckless and a bit lonely. For future reference? Not the most wonderful combination. I had come to the conclusion that I rather wanted to talk to someone: not Algernon, because for one thing I didn't want him to see me like this, and for another, he was off doing important, wizarding-world-of-fashion-type things. Not Victoria, because she would've demanded to know what was going on and then she would've mocked me shamelessly afterward. Sympathy is not her strong suit. Not Wimmy, because one should not attempt to deal with a house elf spurned, though I genuinely gave some consideration to the idea of attempting to patch things up with him for a moment. Yes. It was that bad.

And so finally, inevitably – I turned to Snape.

(Make note of the 'finally.' Also the 'inevitably.')

I wandered down to the dungeons in a melancholy sort of way, figuring that a bit of hearty insulting from him would almost cheer me up at this point, and that at least he _knew_ about my current plight. Besides, I reasoned, he probably kept alcohol around.

In retrospect, this is deeply, deeply saddening.

Oh well.

In all honesty, by the time I got to the dungeon, pushed open the door, and laid eyes on him straightening up Potions ingredients in the supply closet, I kind of wanted to burst into tears.

(This was entirely the butterbeer's fault, mind you.)

"Hi," I said, in this sort of pathetic half-sob.

I suppose it was faintly startling, because he dropped a tiny glass bottle of something that immediately burned a decently sized hole into the floor. After a bit of hearty under-his-breath swearing, he turned to face me, not entirely thrilled.

Of course, at the time, this communicated the rather distressing message that nobody anywhere wanted anything to do with me, and the urge to burst into tears multiplied. Which, fittingly, wasn't convenient in any way.

"Auriga," he responded curtly, a potential sneer dangerously close to taking up residence on his face. "And to what do I owe this . . . pleasure?"

Except, of course, he said it in that charming way he has, where you're about as pleasant to him as that vat of eels I mentioned earlier. Well, probably far less so.

And let me just tell you, Notebook, I was hardly in the mood to put up with any of his sarcasm. I was emotionally distressed, and very much overwhelmed with the need to whine. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to listen.

"My life is terrible," I announced, sinking back onto one of the tables and nearly knocking over a spare cauldron. He, predictably, looked annoyed and as though he'd rather like to shout at me to get out and never come back. Or hang me from the ceiling by my fingernails. Something like that.

Instead, he just sort of stared for a moment before inhaling sharply and closing his eyes in a way that was clearly a prayer to . . . whatever sinister higher power he may believe in that I would not expound upon that particular statement.

And, just for the sake of annoying him a bit, I innocently threw in, "Don't you want to know why?"

"No," he returned promptly.

Well, _really_.

"I'll tell you anyway."

"Goody," he deadpanned in a way that was so thoroughly sarcastic that it didn't even conjure up the urge to mock him for using the word 'goody.' He then refocused his attention on the supply closet and the convenient new hole in the floor.

"You have Christopher Goldstein, right?" I asked, figuring that was as good a place as any to begin my tale of tragedy and woe.

He muttered something that caused the floor to return to its previous state and the glass shards to disappear, but beyond that, apparently my inquiry wasn't worthy of a reply.

Deciding not to be dissuaded by this, I plunged on. "Well, I do. And he's in love with me."

He laughed sharply at this, but didn't turn around. Which I personally found to be particularly annoying – when someone is mocking you shamelessly, you'd think that the very least they could do is turn around and do it to your face, right? But not Snape. Oh, no. Certainly not. That would be far too courteous a notion for him to so much as contemplate.

"What?" I demanded, defensive.

"Impressive, Auriga," he responded sardonically, instead of actually bothering to answer my question. "Why, I should go so far as to deem the concept worthy of Nabokov."

I didn't say anything to do with this – namely because I haven't the faintest idea who Nabokov is – and instead continued on.

"He is, you know. He passes notes about me to his friends." I crossed my arms in front of my chest, indignant for no particular reason. And then, because it suddenly seemed quite necessary- "He said he wouldn't kick me out of bed."

Another bottle went plummeting to the floor. The entirety of the room turned an obnoxious shade of fuchsia for a moment before resuming its original state.

"That's what I said," I said; my mind wasn't precisely clear at the moment, and it seemed a fitting enough response. "And now – _now_ he's being a sleazy little brat and making up stories about his ailing mum so that I'll give him private lessons, during which instances he'll no doubt attempt to seduce me."

I, personally, felt that this was a rather dramatic finish. Snape, however, apparently didn't share that particular viewpoint – he didn't so much as turn around.

_Really._

"Aren't you going to say anything?" I demanded, a bit offended that I'd poured out my heart to him and he didn't have the courtesy to so much as mock me about it.

"You are truly ridiculous," he returned evenly.

Which was, sadly enough, really all that I needed to hear. Honestly – as soon as he'd said it, I felt about ten times better. I didn't even feel the need to construct some excuse as to why I'd need to be in his quarters so I could steal a bottle of firewhisky.

I don't even want to know why this had this particular effect. I suppose just because I've gotten so used to it that it's almost comforting.

Which is really just confirmation that I _am_ , in fact, truly ridiculous, but I don't particularly feel like dwelling on this at present.

So, feeling considerably better, I thanked him and left. The "thank you" was apparently a bit unexpected, though, I guess, because I heard glass shattering against the floor again as I was walking out. This time it was accompanied by a very strong scent that was eerily reminiscent of cotton candy, which I'm not even going to think about. The possibilities as to why he'd want anything that smelled like cotton candy . . . I just don't think my mind can process it at present.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be feeling so much better that I'll actually be able to appreciate this for its comedic value/blackmail potential and conspire a bit with Victoria.

Heh. Heh.

**1:32 P.M.**

And I suppose I may as well look up Nabokov. Just for the sake of knowledge, and all.

**1:34 P.M.**

Well, this is really just predictable. Nabokov wrote a book about a mental old professor who fell in love with his twelve-year-old nymphet stepdaughter. And enjoyed it thoroughly all the while, I'd bet.

 _Ugh_.

Damn him and his subtly clever literary allusions.

**1:35 P.M.**

And besides, Christopher isn't twelve, he's sixteen! Which is far less sick, undoubtedly. And it's not as though I'm—

. . . going to think about this anymore.

**1:36 P.M.**

Honestly.

**1:37 P.M.**

The next time I see him, damned if I don't throw another coffee mug in his general direction.


	18. A Spinster By Choice

** Thursday, November 28, 1991 **

**St. Mungo's**

**4:25 A.M.**

All right. That's it. I'm done. Honestly. I'm just . . . _done_. I'm swearing off men.

D'you know, I don't think I'm even swearing off. That implies that doing this might be difficult in some way. And after what's been going on as of late, that certainly shall not be the case!

So I'm finished. Retired, in a sense. Why have I always been so ridiculously enamoured with the idea of romance, anyway? It's all complete rubbish!

That's it. I'm officially an old maid. A spinster-by-choice.

Or, if I get deeply, desperately lonely, possibly a lesbian.

But probably not.

But down with men! Never again! And believe me, Notebook, I am positively sure about that!

**4:29 A.M.**

Though, for a moment of optimism (don't worry, it certainly won't last), the Healer says that Algernon's spine should probably heal up quite nicely.

Which is a good thing, I suppose.

Even though I'm – and this is as strange to me as it is to you – rather annoyed with even him right now.

As a matter of fact, I think I might have kicked him earlier.

I wonder if this means we're taking a bit of a break from each other.

**4:30 A.M.**

If not, how exactly might I go about breaking that whole bit to him about my having sworn off men?

**4:31 A.M.**

Well, I suppose if things got too difficult, I could just mention that part about possibly someday being a lesbian. I figure nothing turns a man off like the mental image of his girlfriend snogging another woman.

**4:32 A.M.**

. . . Or maybe not.

**4:35 A.M.**

In any case, when he wakes up again, _we're absolutely through_.

Assuming we're not already.

But what's really important here is

**4:36 A.M.**

A small child with an extra arm sprouting out of his head just caught sight of me as his mum was leading him through the hall and burst into tears. He was about two and not quite articulate yet, but I can't shake the sinking suspicion that I distinctly heard the words "yucky monster."

Well, excuse me, you little brat! _You_ haven't been what I've been through! These last twelve or so hours haven't been enough to scar you for life despite the fact that house-elves only played a minimal role! So what if I haven't been able to tend to my hair for the past twenty-four hours or so? There are more important things, you know!

Ooh, I bet you anything he's going to wind up in Slytherin.

. . . And besides, really, it's not like he's one to judge! He's got a bloody _arm_ growing out of his _head_! That's really quite monstrous indeed, if I do say so myself!

Not to mention yucky.

Blech.

Little bastard.

**4:38 A.M.**

I meant that in the nicest way possible. Really I did. I mean, I understand that calling kids just out of the baby age bracket swear words isn't morally sound, under normal circumstances. But do I even qualify for normal circumstances? Is my life _ever_ normal?

Ask yourself, higher power that seems intent upon torturing me!

And, er, then please don't send me to hell, if you don't mind.

I actually do like children. Quite a bit, really. Not as much as I like puppies, but . . .

**4:39 A.M.**

Er, all right, maybe I will just go have a quick peek at myself in the bathroom, then. Splash a bit of water onto my face. Wake myself up.

Speaking of waking up, I wonder if they have any coffee.

Ohhh, that sounds heavenly. I almost can't think about it right now.

Perhaps I'll go search for the tearoom after I've been to the lavatory.

**St. Mungo's - Bathroom**

**4:47 A.M.**

Oh, God. He's right. I _am_ a yucky monster.

One should not, in the name of all that is right and true in this world, be able to look into the mirror and fear their own reflection as much as I do right now.

Well, then. It's official. I now absolutely and incontrovertibly _need_ to drown myself in coffee.

Or maybe one of the toilets.

**4:49 A.M.**

I've decided to go with coffee, after reaching the logical assumption that it probably tastes better.

**St. Mungo's – Tearoom**

**5:01 A.M.**

Blech. All right, maybe the coffee _doesn't_ taste better. I mean, I'm not about to go back to the bathroom and compare, or anything, but _really_. Isn't it likely that people who've suffered extremely traumatic events are going to be coming here? And if your mum's just been diagnosed with an incurable case of scrofungulus or your husband barely survived a run-in with a manticore, doesn't it seem like the least they could do was supply you with somewhat decent coffee?

 _Honestly_. I sometimes think that the entire world is out to get me.

I wouldn't even throw this stuff at Snape.

**St. Mungo's – Cozy Little Supply Closet**

**5:18 A.M.**

I officially renounce my previous statement.

Not that I _meant_ to throw it at him at first. I mean, it's not as though we're alone in the staffroom or anything. We're in a _public place_. A public place where that kind of violence is probably condemned, no less.

But, well, sometimes, there's nothing else you can do.

I mean, really! The nerve of him! My boyfriend (ex-boyfriend? Yes, right, I'll get right on that) is suffering through the agonies of a broken _spine_ right now, whereas he only has a few measly cuts and scratches, and _he_ feels that he has the right to get upset with _me_? As though all of this is my fault?

Well, that wouldn't work this time! We all know whose fault this was, and it's certainly not mine. Mostly. As a matter of fact, it's entirely Snape's fault.

Almost.

Probably.

And yet he still stormed on in here, all cut up and bastardly beyond all mortal comprehension, sank down in the seat next to mine, and hissed, "I do hope you're happy now, Auriga."

 _Really_. I probably should have known then and there to just get rid of the damned coffee before it made its subtle but undeniable transformation into a tool of utmost destruction.

But really, I suppose I'm not all that great when it comes to picking up on things like that.

So instead I just stared at him incredulously for a moment before demanding, "Do I _want_ to know what you're talking about?"

"Oh, I'd assume so," he returned smoothly, and I momentarily harbored a compulsion to punch him in the nose. It was almost completely repaired by now, of course, but still had to be a bit sore, and besides, two broken noses in under twenty-four hours? Just the sort of thing that would be terribly unfortunate, were it to happen to anyone else, but quite fitting indeed where Snape was concerned. However, I was able to maintain my composure.

Erm, mostly, anyway. I may have unconsciously reached for my coffee at that point, but really, as of right then, _I_ wasn't even aware that I'd be doing anything besides drinking it.

Clearly, I underestimate my own capacity for ferocity and strength.

"After all, I can only imagine how positively . . . thrilling—" (sneer) "—this must be for you."

I hate it when he does that. And d'you know, I bet he's completely aware of the fact that I hate it when he does that. With the nonchalantly drawn out pauses, and the fact that he usually uses them with words like 'thrilling' and 'desires' and the like. _Really_. If he weren't such a revolting bat, I'd almost suspect that he kept legions of heaving-bosomed women in that dungeon of his and used his days off to have his way with them until his sexual prowess became downright unsurpassed.

Snape with a harem.

 _Hah._ Well, isn't that just likely.

(That's complete sarcasm, mind. I don't know _one_ woman who would show the slightest bit of interest in him, let alone legions of them. How many women constitute a legion, anyway? I feel like I should know this. Well – too many, that's what I know! And that's certainly enough.)

In any case, all of this didn't exactly have time to fly through my head before I replied, or if it did it was very fast and I didn't manage to catch most of it. Like that part about the heaving bosoms, which would have in all likelihood thrown me off a bit.

Instead, almost by default, I just snapped back, "What the hell are you going on about?"

He smiled, in this sort of sick, twisted, 'I-revel-in-your-pain' way that was just ever-so-characteristic of him. "Men falling off towers, shattering spines, performing illegal curses . . . all in your name. Why, to a mind as flighty and ridiculous as yours, it must be the very picture of perfection." He made a point of over-articulating those last three words, no doubt aiming to express that he didn't exactly approve of my flighty ridiculousness.

"You're mad," I informed him, as coolly as I could. Because let me tell you, Notebook, there was _nothing_ romantic about what had happened. And I didn't enjoy any of it in the least. My hair looked awful and my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – would have probably never walked again, had he been stuck in a Muggle hospital, and it was all just very unpleasant! And not the least bit romantic. Perhaps if I'd have looked a bit better, and Algernon had requested my presence to the Healer in a hoarse, desperate whisper drenched in unmistakable love, and Christopher had perhaps gotten killed somewhere within the whole ordeal, and Snape had _finally_ met his untimely – scratch that – very timely, about-timely demise . . .

Well, then maybe it would have been a bit nice. And slightly enjoyable. _Slightly_ , mind you.

But I wasn't about to explain all of this to Snape.

"Am I?" he inquired, in that nice way he has that clearly means 'au contraire, oh mentally ailing companion of mine' except . . . well, not quite because Snape would never say anything like that. Don't look at me like that. Or . . . don't not look at me like that because you're not looking at me, but I can tell how you'd be looking at me if you had eyes to look but you don't so just _stop_.

Er.

The point is, I am really in desperate need of sleep, and my coffee is currently on the tearoom wall and a newly soggy Potions master, and I am a bit too embarrassed to go back and get more.

So I may get a bit mentally unhinged. Temporarily. Understandably. Shut up.

"Yes," I said, in a way that was meant to suggest an air of incontrovertibility but actually came out just sounding impressively sulky. "Bonkers."

". . . Bonkers?" he said delicately. And hearing him say it like that really honestly made me think that I was the one that had gone bonkers. Which I'm not. It's him. It's all him. It's just that he's evil in addition to being bonkers, and so he can trick you into believing that you've been the bonkers one all along!

. . . All right, so my word choice mightn't have been entirely effective.

But we've gone over this sleep deprivation issue. Let's just leave it at that.

It had seemed very fitting before I'd actually heard it out loud.

"You know what I mean," I said impatiently, not wanting to put up with any more of his evil-bonkers mind manipulation.

"Rarely."

How is it that he can be all smooth and effortlessly sharp-witted at all times? I bet he takes potions for it; that can't come naturally. And, well, if he _does_ take potions for it, then that's rather unhealthy and a bit shameful. And reasonably comforting. So I believe I'm going to be sticking to this particular theory for awhile.

"Well, I didn't enjoy it," I finally informed him crossly. "And you should know that, you stupid bastard." (Just because that felt very necessary.)

"Ah, yes," Snape agreed, in a way where he wasn't really agreeing, of course, but rather just taking the opportunity to show off his sarcasm skills. "Truly, Auriga, now I recognize the error of my ways. How dare I suspect you of something so . . . shallow?"

"I hate it when you pause," I told him, feeling very glum all of a sudden.

And, like he hadn't known this already (bastard), he just sort of stopped and stared at me with that lovely disdainful bewilderment that he's made into an art form by now.

"What?"

"Never mind," I grumbled.

And then we just sort of sat there, me holding my coffee and unaware of the fact that in a few short minutes it would be wreaking unimaginable havoc, and him kind of sneering to himself and occasionally glancing at me in disgust.

It was oddly comforting.

(But only because sleep deprivation makes Auriga mental. Remember this.)

Clearly, though, this was the sort of thing that was simply too strange to last, and before I knew it, I found myself asking, in a very small and timid sort of way, "Why did you do it?"

He'd been right in the middle of sneering at me, and the sneer kind of froze on his face for a second before he went, in a way that seemed almost panicked, "Do what?"

"You know . . ." And I said this, of course, assuming that he did in fact know. And it was in no way an idiot assumption – I mean, he'd been there all along, hadn't he? His face was all scratched up and one of his fingers was still a bit crooked (from being bent backwards, and all, I'm assuming) and, well, you'd have to be an idiot _not_ to know what I was talking about.

But apparently he is, in fact, an idiot. Big damned surprise.

"If I knew, Auriga, one would assume that I therefore wouldn't have bothered to ask," he reminded me irritably.

"Honestly, Severus," I returned as evenly as I could, figuring that he wasn't the only one allowed to do the scathing first-name-calling thing, "even _I_ know that you're not dense enough to get all scratched up and break your fingers and then forget why."

"I have to wonder at the fact that you're choosing to award that any bit of attention whatsoever, when your beloved is currently suffering through the throes of such agony." He took a second to sort of smile to himself, like he enjoyed the thought of Algernon in agony a little more than anyone really should have. (How surprising, to see him acting sick and sadistic. Really, I'd never have expected it. The man is just one big bundle of surprise, that's for sure.)

"Yes, well, he was acting like a bit of a prat," I said coldly, figuring that it probably wasn't all that smart an idea to act as though he were still my beloved to Snape and then go off and break up with him about an hour later. (Which I haven't yet, but I'm going to. Honestly.)

I could tell he was just about to say something all scathing and mock-appalled about how horrifying it was to hear me speak of my one true love that way, or some rubbish like that, so I was sure to throw in, "Though not as much of a prat as certain others involved."

"Yes," Snape replied, aggravatingly undaunted, "Goldstein was rather obnoxious; if you don't take at least twenty points from him for his actions last night then I fear I may have to do so myself. I assume you won't mind."

"That isn't who I meant."

"Well, then pray tell, Auriga, who _did_ you mean?" he inquired, in a tone that was very keen upon informing me just how much he did not care.

Honestly, I'm not sure I even know how he does it. If I spent that much of my time not caring about things, I'd probably be even more of a basket case than I am now, when I care about everything around a thousand times too much.

"You!" I finally said, deciding that this wasn't going to get any easier and it would be best to just get it out in the open. Unfortunately, lack of sleep and terrible coffee and rather edgy nerves all resulted in me . . . well, _screaming_ seems a bit harsh a description, but, all right, we momentarily managed to gather everyone in the room's attention.

But just momentarily! And besides, it was dead quiet in there anyway. A pin drop could have easily garnered that same amount of attention.

Snape, naturally, cannot even begin to master this kind of reasoning, and therefore apparently thought it an ample opportunity to break out the 'you are truly a disgrace to society; see, everyone else knows it just as well as I do' sneer.

"My, my, Auriga," he said, very softly, and his eyes were sort of gleaming in that way they do when he's feeling particularly malevolent, "you _are_ putting on quite the show, aren't you?"

"Oh, shut up," I ordered, feeling rather fed up with him by now. I mean, really, Notebook, picture it: to have to sit there with him, knowing perfectly that _he's_ one of the main reasons that we were all stuck there in the first place, but did he show the slightest bit of remorse? Of course not. Oh, no. It was all Auriga's fault, even though _she_ didn't do anything! The most she did was want a normal, functional relationship, or at least a bit of romance in her life. Is that so very, very wrong?

Auriga –

Er, I realize that I am referring to myself in third person. Sleep deprived, mind. And angry. And harboring yearning thoughts of caffeine.

This does not, however, mean that first person is suddenly beyond me.

So, anyway. Then _I_ felt compelled to continue, "You can't pretend that you had nothing to do with it, you know! I _saw_ you! I watched you –" And then I decided that this might be an opportune time to lower my voice, even though I hated him and all. I didn't quite want him fined or sent to Azkaban or something, "I _watched_ you push him off the Astronomy Tower."

Snape arched an eyebrow, not even bothering to break out a sneer. It seemed he didn't think it was worth the effort; that I would immediately realize the sheer insanity of my accusations if I just stared at him long enough to yield to the power of the eyebrow.

Hah. Hardly! I like to think that I've a bit more inner strength than that.

"You did," I said, and reached over to poke him as menacingly as I could in the shoulder to emphasize it. "You pushed him and I know you did, so there's no point in pretending otherwise, Severus Snape!"

Well, apparently he was so busy channeling all of his condescending skepticism into that eyebrow that he didn't manage to pick up on the 'no point in pretending otherwise' part.

"Congratulations, Auriga," he said, not the least bit congratulatory but rather impressively derisive, "you've managed to appear more mentally unsound than I'd ever thought you capable of – quite the feat indeed."

And by this time, Notebook, he'd just gotten downright frustrating.

"Well, I might be 'mentally unsound,' as you put it, but at least I'm not completely pathetic!" I pointed out angrily. "There's no getting around this, you know. You're going to have to give me some kind of explanation. It's not as though you can just sneer and do that eye twitching thing until I just forget entirely about the whole affair! I mean, _look_."

And then I did something that I would only do were I a sleep-deprived emotionally drained for-life scarred perpetual spinster slash yucky monster who'd been betrayed by the one thing she'd thought constant in her life – the caffeinated beverage.

Otherwise, I certainly wouldn't have done it. Under no circumstances.

Well, all right, maybe unless I was drunk.

But I wasn't, so I can't even begin to see how any of this is relevant.

It's just that I tend to . . . touch Snape more than usual when I've got a bit of alcohol in my system.

And I _didn't_. Just fatigue, and unyielding distress, and indescribably frightening hair. (Quite the step up – or, well, down, I suppose – from its usual state, which I have deemed 'mildly horrifying.') Which is apparently roughly equivalent to a few swigs of Firewhisky.

I reached over and sort of . . . brushed my finger over one of the scratches on his cheek. Not for any kind of remotely romantic purpose, mind! Believe you me, Notebook, that was the last thing on my mind. (Well, perhaps not the last thing. Celestina Warbeck's new affair with the bagpiper from The Weird Sisters was, I'll admit, further back. But now I'm quite sure I'd have been better off focusing my time and energy upon that.)

No, no. What was on my mind was _proof_. And, well, the scratch? Proof of the fact that he'd been entirely involved in last night's little fight to the death! Inarguable proof! And I figured if I touched it, you know, he'd . . .

Er, understand that, realize that he was no match for me, let out a little long-suffering sigh, and then confide in me as to what the hell's going on with absolute truth and minimal sarcasm.

SLEEP DEPRIVATION, all right? And yes, I realize that one excuse can only carry you so far. But . . . but it's the truth, for Merlin's sake, and . . . it's a good excuse. I don't function well without sleep. Or caffeine. And right now I have neither. And aren't these the kinds of things that should most certainly be taken into account before rash judgments are passed?

Well, yes. Maybe if you're reasonable, and have a soul, and such.

But Snape is not reasonable, even though you can tell he's entirely under the impression that he is (his mind is deeply and irreversibly skewed; no one has grown more aware of this than I), and, the soul-having part isn't even an issue, really.

Anyway. All right. So . . . there we were. With my pointer finger kind of frozen on his face, him staring at me in a manner that suggested he couldn't even bring himself to manage a sneer, and some clearly disturbed old woman sitting the next table over making cooing noises at us.

In order to postpone the full rekindling of the extreme agony that came from the whole touching Snape incident, I just need to take a moment to remark upon said old woman. Because . . . _honestly_. Say _you_ (well, not _you_ -you, obviously, as we've quite established the fact that you cannot see) spot a witch with hair nothing short of sinister inadvertently pressing her hands all over the face of what could very well, for all you know, be a vampire who looked like the very brush of her fingers was enough to make him toss cookies?

Or, er, blood. Do vampires throw up? Because if so, that really does destroy the whole romantic creature of the night air a bit. I mean, if you're going to go through all the dark romanticism and cruelty of robbing someone's life in order to drain their veins, it seems like the least you could do is keep it down, right?

. . . I sometimes suspect I should not be allowed to think.

So, anyway. What was my point again? Vampires weren't my point, were they? Because whilst they _do_ have pointy fangs and can be killed with pointy stakes, I'm not sure that actually automatically ensures that there's a point herein. Relevant to what I'm talking about, and all. Since Snape is not a vampire. I don't think. Even though if I'd considered this possibility earlier, that whole instance where he stared fixedly at my neck could've taken on a whole multitude of new and terrifying explanations.

I did used to have a bit of a thing for Louis from _Interview with the Vampire_. Sure, everyone else seems to prefer Lestat, but there's something touching in the fact that a vampire could be, well, technically evil and still be so wonderfully soulful. And generous enough to spend his free time giving interviews when he could be off killing innocents, or something.

I wonder if real vampires are like that. I've never actually met one. Unless Snape is one. Which he isn't, of course, because I've seen him outside during the day, and did brandish a cross at him once. Which opens up the opportunity for even more rambling, but honestly, I'm a bit too exhausted to get into that, so I suppose it will just have to be left in mystery. We have a long and complicated past, Snape and I. I don't think we'd be entirely out of place in a Moira K. Mockridge novel. Especially if Snape did actually happen to be a vampire. Moira thrives upon that sort of thing. Ooh, I still remember one of hers where this governess fell madly in love with her employer, who was this very nice, well-to-do man who actually turned out to be a werewolf. There was this fantastic scene where she had to protect his children from getting bitten by him and becoming the very thing that he despised. Goodness, her genius never ceases to amaze me. Even though one of the, er, more intimate bits might have borderlined on bestiality. Just a little. But every girl's entitled a bit of creative license, right? And I'm not about to blame Moira just because I had nightmares for a month and a half afterward. The way I see it, it managed to make me into a stronger person, in the long run! Why, my entire being may have been shaped by the writings of Moira K. Mockridge!

All right. Perhaps not my _entire_ being. Not, for example, the psychotic, Snape-touching, house elf-kissing, Quirrell-seducing part of my being. Because that would just be insulting to her.

This has honestly dwindled into meaninglessness, hasn't it?

I've discovered that I'm slightly good at that.

So, er, where was I?

Oh. Right. The touching. And Snape.

No wonder I went from old ladies to very hairy sex scenes in an attempt to change the subject.

 _Anyway_. So this woman, she's just . . . cooing at us, as though we're adorable little babies. Or absolutely the most darling couple she's ever seen, or something. When in actuality we were, I'm sure, the absolute portrait of psychosis, exhaustion, and All Things That Must Not Be Because Sweet Stars, Imagine The Children They'd Have. (Not that I have done this. Hah. Or, er, if I have, it's just to reach the conclusion that people with features like my hair and Snape's nose should not be allowed to procreate.)

Snape, however, seemed strangely . . . unshaken by this. He was too busy being shaken by me, I figure.

(I'm a little too tired to tell whether that sounds suggestive or not; if it does, I don't mean anything by it. Because Snape and I would never and ew hate him die bastard die and that nice customary list of terms that I am, quite frankly, too exhausted to delve into at present.)

Instead, he just stared at me with this expression that I couldn't quite decipher. In retrospect, it might have been abject terror. Or a numbed fascination. Or unbridled delight, for all I care. Because I don't. I'm too tired and too irritated with him to care at present. Anyway. Strange expression. Moving along, then.

You know how time kind of does that thing sometimes where it freezes, or at the very least decides to slow significantly? And . . . how that tends to happen during encounters with Snape, of all people?

Yes, you know. Of course you know. You've heard it all before. I'm not going to bother to relay it again.

So, anyway, we just kind of sat there and stared in abject terror/numbed fascination/what have you for what shifted into a very awkward amount of time until everyone's favourite mentally skewed old woman (not to be confused with everyone's favourite mentally skewed woman, who is apparently yours truly) actually had the guile – or, you know, complete mindlessness – to utter, in a tone filled with far more syrupy sweet delight than should be legal, "Oh, young love."

This brought the bastard right back to his senses, all right.

He sort of reached up and swatted my hand out of the way as though dealing with a particularly annoying insect. And, well, I hardly wanted him to think that I'd just done it in a moment of blind passion, or something! Nothing could be farther from the truth! (Well, maybe not nothing. But I'm not even going to dare to expound upon that, lest I start rambling about papayas or Derwent Shimpling or something.)

So I yelped, in a way that was a little more childishly accusatory than I'd meant to, "I didn't want to do that!"

"Let us hope not," he returned flatly, closing his eyes as though invoking the gods of darkness and foul hair care to either grant him inner peace or smite me.

"You know I didn't!" I reminded him, still sounding . . . well, like I'd fit right in in the psychiatric unit of St. Mungo's. "I hate you! You know that! But it's _proof_! Scratches! You've got scratches! You were involved and you pushed my boyfriend off the Astronomy Tower and there's no convincing me otherwise, thank you very much!"

Well, I, er, sort of managed to forget to lower my voice that time around.

On the plus side, at least this prompted the crazy old lady to stop cooing and instead start eyeing me like I was mentally unsteady.

In retrospect, it's a bit depressing, the realization that _she_ thought _I_ was mad, but at the time, this wasn't exactly a top concern of mine.

Or Snape's. His top concern at that particular moment, in fact, appeared to be silencing me permanently, on account of the fact that I'd managed to draw everyone's attention again. And that despite his devil-may-care attitude, he apparently didn't enjoy being publicly accused of pushing someone to their agonizing almost-doom.

Which is a bit sensitive, really, considering he's taken two dozen points away from a first year Hufflepuff for sneezing into her cauldron.

By that time, I figured that there really was no going back, and that I might as well try for an impressive finish. So after taking a rather impressive swig of my rather unimpressive coffee, I leaned forward and inquired, in as intimidating a tone as I could muster, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I'm not sure that that's a question that should be directed my way at present," he returned coldly; there were traces of something suspiciously like a twitch lurking around his left eye, which I suppose I should have noticed and used to comprehend the full scope of his fury. But that's rather a lot to ask when one had reached my level of exhaustion. "When one takes into consideration the fact that you are making a complete imbecile of yourself – in an area intended for repose, no less – over something which you have no doubt shifted into some grand romantic delusion . . . well," he said, and paused to throw in a particularly acidic laugh, ". . . what _I'm_ thinking – or perhaps, dare I suggest it, what you'd like me to be – no longer seems quite such a paramount issue, now, does it?"

It was about then that I became very much aware of the fact that I was in possession of the worst cup of coffee known to man, and that perhaps drinking it was not exactly the smartest way to utilize it.

I didn't make any drastic actions, though – I can keep my wits about me, thank you very much! – and he apparently interpreted this as 'why, yes, Severus, I'd positively _love_ another helping of verbal abuse!'

(Bastard.)

Leaning a bit closer, he lowered his voice to an intimate whisper that really should have clued me into the fact that I should just get the hell out of there before I was really struck with the urge to wreak a fair amount of physical damage.

"Rather," he proceeded, "the issue at hand seems to be how successfully you've finally proven yourself – why, forgive me, Auriga, but even I would have thought it beyond you. What was that you referred to me as earlier?" He paused, pretending to cast around for the word but really just abusing the fact that I hate it when he pauses, no doubt. "Ah, yes – pathetic. And while I'd hate to throw away such a title, it seems as though recent events have rendered it _infinitely_ more fitting of you. You'll agree, I'm sure."

I glowered. In no known mode of communication in the world have I ever known this to be recognized as agreement, but he was on a roll by now, and apparently a petty little thing like my not agreeing with his merciless slaughtering of the essence of my being was to simply be left ignored.

"I must say I'm concerned about your fiancé's reaction to all of this," he continued smoothly. By now, he was just enjoying himself. You could tell. His eyes were sort of . . . glinting. Meanwhile, with each word he spoke, my coffee and I were becoming one, united against him. "It seems it might . . . bring him to his senses, where you are concerned. I must admit, my imagination hardly rivals yours, so perhaps it's completely irrelevant that I can't construct one scenario in which he might choose to endure your presence a second longer." And then, with a bitter smile that just confirmed the seventy-six different layers of evil that he's composed of – "God knows I certainly would not."

And, well, that sort of cemented the fact that the coffee throwing wasn't even an option. It was simply the way things had to occur. Fate, you know. Destiny.

And so I hurled it at him with all my might and then stormed out here.

In retrospect, maybe I should have stayed. And laughed, or . . . something. Because really, it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the first time around.

Maybe it's because the coffee was actually quite good the first time around.

(All right, that seems like a bit of a shoddy excuse, but I think my brain may actually begin to drip out of my ears in a second, and I have completely lost the ability to provide a better one.)

But can you believe him? _Honestly_. It would be one thing if all of this was my fault. But it wasn't! And when I work up the energy to explain all of it to you, Notebook, then I'm sure you're bound to agree with me! And, d'you know, I'm sure Algernon will as well! And Christopher, even!

And, well, I suppose there's always Wimmy if all else fails.

But the thing is, Algernon is a gentleman. A truly good and decent man. He has no reason to be the slightest bit cross with me, and he knows that. (Well, er, except for that part where I sort of lied to him a little, but that was never really confirmed before he – well, fell, so that shouldn't be much of a problem.) Snape is just . . . bitter. And mean. And greasy. And a bastard. And possibly a vampire, but not a soulful one like Louis. Just . . . a mean one.

I wonder if they keep any particularly pointy sticks around here.

No, no. That's a bit rash. Stabbing Snape in the heart isn't going to make things any better. As a matter of fact, I think I'll just go sit outside Algernon's room for awhile and wait to see if any news arrives. Or . . . work up the courage to go and tell him that we're through. Even though he's really such a nice man, and I kind of adore him just a bit even though I _did_ kick him, and if he winds up siding with me, I may have to reconsider the whole break-up thing.

It will be all right. He'll understand all of this, and handle it with dignity and calm. Unlike certain other people deserving of stakes through the heart regardless of whether or not they happen to be a blood-sucking fiend. Because he really is the best fiancé ever, or at least one of them.

**5:49 A.M.**

. . . Wait a moment.

**5:50 A.M.**

Fiancé?

**5:51 A.M.**

Snape . . . said fiancé.

**5:52 A.M.**

All right, then. Something tells me that there's something very peculiar going on indeed. Why would he think that Algernon and I were going to get _married_ , for heaven's sake? We've barely just started dating, and it's not as though we've spent enough time together to even contemplate such things!

(Well, fine, there's been minor contemplation on my end. But that's irrelevant, as Algernon sort of doesn't know about it.)

Either Snape is an even bigger idiotic bastard than I'd ever imagined, or something very strange is going on.

**5:54 A.M.**

Or, well, there's always the happy possibility of both.

**5:55 A.M.**

Well, whatever the case, I should go find him. Or someone. I need to get to the bottom of this immediately!

**5:56 A.M.**

Almost immediately, anyway. First, I think I'll go stand outside the tearoom and see if I can get anyone going by to bring me some coffee back out into the hall.

Perhaps if I pretend to be dying of dragon pox, they'll take pity on me.

**6:12 A.M.**

Note to self: dragon pox is not fatal.

Usually, I feel like I would know that.

But _still_. You'd think someone would just look at me and see that I am clearly a truly troubled individual and then take it upon themselves to make some meager attempt at ceasing my pain! I mean, all I wanted was a bloody cup of coffee. Is that _honestly_ so difficult?

Yes it is, apparently, if you happened to be one of the six people I asked before finally convincing a kid with purple and yellow spots all over him to go get me some for a handful of sickles.

Hmph. People these days. It's right depressing, that's what it is.

But I feel slightly more alive, and with each sip I take, I become increasingly assured that I will no longer veer off onto strange tangents about vampires. So I suppose that's a good thing, at least.

Still, I don't know if I'm quite up to dealing with Snape yet.

Perhaps I'll go talk to Algernon instead. Because talking to him usually results in faint giddiness and butterflies of the pleasant variety in my stomach and general loveliness. Which at present sounds far more appealing than yet more verbal harassment. There's only so much a girl can take.

 **St Mungo's – Supply Closet. Again.** (And it's really not all that cozy in the least.)

**7:02 A.M.**

Spinster. I am a spinster. As of right now. Officially. Can one officially become a spinster? Is there a document I could sign, or something? Because if I signed something, that would probably provide that nice sense of being past the point of no return.

Not that I need that.

Because with or without official documentation, it's just true.

You would think that at least _Algernon_ would have been able to offer a bit of comfort. I mean, he's the perfect man! I didn't think he was even physically capable of anything but . . . but comfort, and charm, and hand-kissing, and things like that!

Oh, no.

As it is, I never really knew him at all. I couldn't even begin to suspect the darkness that truly lurked beneath the dashing exterior.

. . . Well, all right, perhaps that's a bit much. It sounds like I'm about to reveal that he's actually a Death Eater or a homicidal psychotic who eats the flesh of young girls while they're still alive, or something.

It's not quite that serious.

I suppose.

But at the same time . . .

He was _mean_. To _me_.

Mean in a nice way, yes, but . . . there was still an undeniable spark of cruelty there! And am I honestly supposed to be able to handle that, after everything else I've been through? Is _anyone_ supposed to be able to? I'm sorry, but I just don't have that kind of strength! What does the world really _expect_ of me, anyway?

I ask you, Notebook. I ask you.

(Don't worry. I'm not expecting you to answer, or anything. The caffeine has rendered me pretty much properly sane by now.)

Sigh.

So, anyway, I walked back to his room feeling rather optimistic, considering everything that's gone on. I figured he'd manage to cheer me up somehow, and I was, of course, still harboring a bit of triumph on account of the whole having-coffee thing.

And so I went in, only the slightest bit nervous, to find that he was asleep.

(Faintly anticlimactic, if I do say so myself.)

The nurse smiled at me, introduced herself, and asked who I was.

"His girlfriend," I answered, figuring I might as well keep things simple momentarily. That seemed a far more satisfactory response than, say, 'His girlfriend, though I may not be shortly because I've also got a sixteen year old and a house-elf vying for my affections, and I sometimes suspect a very greasy Potions master as well, not that I'd ever show any interest in him because he's a bastard, but, yes, this makes things rather complicated and at times violent and hazardous to spines and honestly, I'm not sure I'm equipped to deal with these sorts of things on a day-to-day basis.'

So, yes. Just girlfriend.

The nurse kept on smiling when I said this, and was all smiles and polite 'nice to meet you's, and such, until she asked what my name was.

I told her, and her face kind of fell.

"Is that like Aur _i_ ga?" she inquired delicately, pronouncing it in that special Algernon way.

"Erm," I returned, detecting that something may be amiss, "Maybe."

"Ah," the nurse said, looking as though she'd just been forced into taking a mouthful of the coffee from the tearoom. "How lovely."

She attempted a smile, failed, realized that she'd failed, and then spun on her heel and left.

Which left me with a slight sense of foreboding, understandably.

So I sat down in the chair next to his bed and drank my coffee, somewhat disturbed by the fact that it actually seemed a bit good by now. After the coffee was gone, I took a bit of time to just stare at him. For a second, it almost seemed like quite a poignant moment; him, lying there unconscious, having suffered in my name, and me staring, waiting, by his side although he wasn't aware of it. There for him, and such.

But then I realized precisely how thoroughly Snape would make fun of this, and a large portion of the romantic value disappeared.

Still, I couldn't help but feel a bit bad for him, so I reached over and sort of put my hand over his.

And then his eyes flew open.

It was slightly startling, not to mention quite the interruption to my little moment of reflection. And they didn't flutter, either, and then begin sparkling with joy at the sight of me! Where's the romance in that? Nowhere, that's where. And so I couldn't help but begin to harbor even more of a bad feeling about what might ensue.

So, he just kind of stared at me, in this really sharp, piercing way that was almost reminiscent of Snape. It was rather unbecoming on him.

Not that it's becoming on Snape.

"Oh!" I said, after my heart had finally had the consideration to stop pounding so hard that I'd thought I might keel over on top of him. "Good morning!"

Which was, all right, a bit of a stupid thing to say.

"Is it?"

"Yes," I replied, as gently and considerately as I could manage. "Around six thirty. You've been here all night."

"I meant the good part," he returned wryly.

I hadn't exactly been prepared for that.

"Um . . . maybe not," I confessed. At that time, I'd still been doing that whole attempting-optimism thing. After all, what was one somewhat sarcastic comment, right? And it's not as though he could be blamed; he'd just woken up and all!

Right.

I have since learned that optimism is completely useless and altogether quite stupid.

"So," I continued, very idiotically hoping that maybe if I spoke in a kind enough tone, it would take his mind off of the whole spine thing, "how are you feeling?"

"Like I just fell dozens and dozens of feet from atop a tower."

"Oh," I said, a bit shaken by this. "Right."

There was a bit of an awkward silence then; you know, the kind that might surface between two people if one of them had nearly died and the other was completely innocent but perhaps beginning to suspect that the first person didn't quite believe this.

You know. That kind of silence.

"Auriga," he finally said, in a tone a little too sweet to quite fit in with the entire scene.

Of course, I was overcome with the desperate hope that he might forgive me, and therefore the fact that he was currently sounding almost affectionate didn't exactly set me on edge so much as it made me want to burst into tears of relief.

"Yes?" I breathed, leaning in a bit closer and squeezing his fingers a little in mine.

He smiled at me and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. And then, after finally managing to detangle his fingers from it, he asked in a soft, gentle kind of way, "Why did you tell Snape that we were engaged?"

"I didn't!" I cried.

He stared at me.

"I didn't!" I repeated with all the conviction I could muster. "I was going to ask you about it! See, he seems to think we're engaged for some reason and I have no idea why – I don't know who could've told him. It's all nonsense, of course," I threw in, glancing at him.

"Yes," he agreed, in this very cryptic sort of way. "Nonsense."

This managed to sting a bit more than I'd expected.

"You think it's nonsense?" I asked in a very meek sort of voice, without meaning to.

He smiled at me, a little sadly, and chose not to answer that. Instead, he said, in this alarmingly skeptical voice, "So you're telling me that you didn't say we were engaged."

"Of course not," I replied, feeling a bit apprehensive by then. "Why would I lie about that?"

"I'm not sure," he said, and frowned a little. "Perhaps the same reason you'd lie and tell me that Snape was in love with you."

And honestly, Notebook, it just felt like the entire world froze in that instant, but in a way that was very, very bad and very, very wrong and entirely unlike when the world freezes because Snape and I are engaged in some sort of physical contact.

Er, not that that's not very, very bad and very, very wrong.

It's just that this was a different kind of very, very bad and very, very wrong. A worse kind.

"I'd forgotten all about that" was the first thought that came to my mind when I regained the ability _to_ think, and, because this is quite simply the way things happen in my life, therefore that's the first thing I said.

Needless to say, this wasn't exactly the most satisfactory response.

"Had you really?" he said, almost coldly, and it was about then that I realized handholding might not be precisely appropriate during this sort of conversation. And so I pulled away and crossed my arms in front of my chest, feeling quite sure that I might be sick at any moment.

"Algernon—" I started – a bit stupidly, really, because I wasn't quite sure what the hell I might say in addition to that.

"I must say that Snape really wasn't entirely pleased when I mentioned it to him," he continued in that awful angry-but-still-terribly-refined-which-makes-the-anger-all-the-more-dreadful tone. "The man doesn't seem quite as fond of you as you apparently fancy him to be."

"Oh, it's not like that!" I protested, almost automatically, and then when he silently raised an eyebrow as though asking _what_ it was like, I kind of regretted it. Am I really supposed to know what it's like? I hardly ever have the faintest clue what's going on anymore!

"It's just . . ." I took a deep breath. "He acts very bizarrely where I'm concerned. Sometimes I think that he is."

"What?"

"In love with me."

I just shouldn't be allowed to talk. In addition to not being allowed to think. My life would be much more blissfully uneventful that way.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I choose not to share that particular suspicion."

Note to self? Telling people that Snape might be in love with you? NOT A GOOD THING TO DO. Not under _any_ circumstances. (Unless, I don't know, some deranged psycho comes at you with a wand and swears he'll Avada Kedavra you unless you tell them that Snape might be in love with you. But what are the odds of that, honestly?)

I don't even have the slightest idea why I said it! It just . . . seemed like the right thing to say, at the time!

Which really just leads me to the conclusion that I have no desire to ever find out precisely how my own mind works.

"I know it sounds stupid," I said weakly. "It's just that . . . things are always very complicated with him. There's this awful mess of God knows what between us and I . . . I'm not very good at dealing with it. That's all."

To make the most supreme of understatements in the history of the world.

"Auriga, would you like to know what I think?"

At that point, I was quite ready to respond with a very hearty 'no,' but it somehow seemed impolite.

"Yes," I grumbled instead, very reluctantly.

"I think that he is a very unhappy, embittered man who would not have the first clue how to go about being in love with anyone," Algernon said, in this wise, patient way that made it all the more awful. "Especially not you."

And something about the way he said it, or maybe just the fact that he said it, made me feel the beginnings of quite the impressive emotional breakdown creeping up. I don't know why it was so upsetting. It's just that, well, first having Snape tell me that there was no way that Algernon gave a damn about me and then him echoing the same thing about Snape, all within around an hour of one another? It is very hard to find anything pleasant in that.

"Yes," I said, willing myself not to make any sort of display that might hint at my being a weak and pathetic individual. Like, you know, bursting into a fit of sobs, or something like that. "Yes, you're absolutely right."

He stared at me for a moment then, his eyes all filled with pity, before inquiring, "So, what else have you lied to me about, then?"

Which was just . . . absolutely the most inconvenient thing he ever could have asked. I could have done with a "There there now, don't cry" or perhaps an "It's going to be all right, don't you worry" or a nice "Oh, darling, it's impossible to stay mad at you" (which would be, okay, somewhat unlikely), and instead, I had . . . that.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed indignantly, feeling rather insulted that he'd even assume such a thing. It's not as though I'm some pathological liar, after all. The way he said it, it sounded as though he were accusing me of being a truly awful person, and, well, I'm _not_! I know I'm not! Sure, I have my moments of . . . less than shining goodness, but it's not as though I eat puppies or anything equal to that on the unforgivable scale!

The only thing is, after that I found myself remembering all of the things I _have_ lied to him about. Not anything important, really, but just . . . little things. Like when I started up with the makeup and the Sleekeazy's and the contact lenses in some attempt to convince him that I was in actuality a reasonably attractive and well-put-together woman. And that time I told him that I'd read the complete works of Tolstoy to sound a bit more intelligent. And when I'd agreed with him when he'd said that Hamlet was certainly Shakespeare's best work, even though I actually find it a bit too depressing and will always like Much Ado About Nothing the best. And when I made up that story about my ex-boyfriend Paul filling my entire flat with roses after he'd cheated on me in an attempt to gain my forgiveness. In actuality, he just sort of forgot about me in favour of Felicia the secretary. Or maybe it was the Leaky Cauldron barmaid – I can't remember which one he wound up settling for instead of me.

But anyway.

Everyone lies, don't they? At least a little bit? About little, insignificant things like that? I can't even see where he had the right to get so upset about it, anyway! _As if_ that story about the way he'd always gone out star-gazing when he was younger was the truth. Those sorts of things are far too perfect and romantic to be true!

I think.

And . . . almost hope.

Anyhow, I guess it managed to show in my face, the fact that I hadn't exactly been entirely truthful with him throughout the course of our relationship.

"Ah," he said, in this very quiet, resigned sort of way that made the tears attempt to make a glorious entrance again.

"I'm sorry about that," I offered helplessly. "I am."

"Aur," he went on, as though he hadn't even heard me, "I think that maybe we should . . ."

And throughout the course of those six words, it dawned on me that I had fully intended to break up with him when I spoke to him next, anyway. There was certainly no way that I was about to allow him to sever all ties between us when it had been _my_ idea in the first place, long before he'd decided to throw some irrational fit about the fact that I'm not one hundred percent truthful all the time!

"—stop seeing each other!" I cut in, as forcefully as possible. "Yes. Absolutely right. Algernon, I don't think I can be with you anymore. This, what we have between us – it just isn't enough. I'm sorry, but we're through."

He looked a bit taken aback by this, and just stared at me for a moment.

"Sorry about your spine," I threw in, and then bolted for the door as quickly as I could. Having the last word seemed very, very essential.

And then, well . . . as I can't show my face in the tearoom again, and I can hardly hang around Algernon's room anymore, this just seemed the best place to be.

In a supply closet.

It's just fitting, really.

So . . . yes. Algernon and I are no more. I guess I should have seen it coming; it's just that I'd thought maybe he'd receive the fact that I'd told that little white lie about Snape a little better than that. I'm not impressed with his behaviour, as a matter of fact! I would have expected better from him.

Hah. What a loss, really.

Not.

Except . . . for the part where it is.

Will my life ever stop being completely terrible? I'd just . . . like to know. Because if it won't, then by all means, I may just have to go and drown myself in one of the toilets after all.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:00 A.M.**

All right. I'm back. I decided that there really was no point in sticking around the hospital any longer, anyway.

And now I suppose I'll get a bit of sleep.

**8:02 A.M.**

Oh, hah. Who am I fooling? I can't sleep. I'm too exhausted to sleep! I'm simply going to have to scribble in here compulsively until my arm falls off, or something.

And wouldn't that be lovely.

It's just occurred to me that I never actually relayed in here what it was that happened to cause all the splendid things that have happened over the past few hours. What with the breakups and bad coffee and bratty, shall-be-Slytherin children and such.

Honestly, Notebook, I'm not sure that I could find the strength to tell you.

Later, maybe.

**8:05 A.M.**

Oh, fine, it's later enough.

And don't you think for a moment that I'm addicted to writing in here, or that it's the only means of soothing my weary soul that I have, or anything like that! I just figure that it might be good of me, to write down what's happened so in ten years or so, when I am rich and successful and perfectly happy and married to Gilderoy Lock – er, a very content spinster, I can look back on this and laugh.

. . . Ten years is a very long time from now.

But never mind that.

So, it all started last night, when I was attempting to prepare myself for the one-on-one study session with Christopher Goldstein that could no longer be postponed. I managed to avoid him quite well for an impressive amount of time, either pretending to go mysteriously deaf when he approached me after class or feigning terrible bouts of sickness that, tragically, robbed me of the ability to award him the full amount of attention that he deserved. (Platonic, teacherly attention, mind. Ugh.)

Finally, _finally_ he caught me unawares and offered more thinly veiled sob stories about his ailing mother, and I figured I might as well get it over with.

And then around five minutes later figured that it would be much more pleasant to get it over with were I to have a considerable amount of Butterbeer in my system.

And so at about seven forty-five, I made my way down to the kitchens, as I was due to meet Christopher at eight and figured that fifteen minutes would be plenty good enough to chug at least one Butterbeer down were I to do it very, very quickly.

However, my ingenious plan wound up getting thwarted quite splendidly.

(Really, what else is new?)

For no sooner had I tickled the pear than the portrait swung open and I found myself standing face to face with –

Wimmy.

The elf who loved me.

I stared. He stared. I decided that his staring was probably a bit more intimidating than my own, as my eyes are not roughly the size of tennis balls.

In the kitchen behind him, I could hear the other house-elves beginning to hiss angrily amongst themselves.

"Er," I said finally.

He stared at me for a second longer before his big eyes welled up with tears. _Tears_. Well, you can imagine my predicament, Notebook – I wasn't exactly equipped to deal with tears! I already had to deal with a lecherous under-aged wizard! That plus a heartbroken house elf could only lead to sheer madness on my part!

Wimmy attempted to retain as much dignity as he could, though – I had to give him credit for that.

"Miss Auriga Miss," he said, in a very resigned sort of way.

"Hi, Wimmy," I responded weakly. Honestly, it almost broke my heart, and he's a _perverted house-elf_ , for God's sake! I occasionally think that perhaps I am simply too kind for my own good.

"Wimmy isn't seeing Miss Auriga very often lately," he continued forlornly.

"Erm, no," I agreed. "I've been a bit busy."

"With Professor Snape, Wimmy is thinking," Wimmy said, in this way that I suppose was intended to sound aloof and detached but actually came out rather . . . devastatingly pained.

"No! No!" I exclaimed. "Absolutely not with Professor Snape. With . . . shirts. And not on beds. And none of that was what it seemed, you know."

Wimmy looked up at me, his eyes positively glistening with tears. "Really?"

And, feeling oddly touched, I looked back down at him and nodded. "Reall—"

"Wait!" another house-elf cut in, hurrying over to his side and glaring daggers at me. "Wimmy doesn't need to be talking to the bad professor, no, he does not!"

I had to take a moment to process this. I mean, _I'm_ the bad professor? Not Snape, who is for all intents and purposes pure _evil_? Not Quirrell, who can't even focus upon the subject he's supposed to teach for more than ten minutes without having an anxiety attack?

Honestly. House elves have some mightily skewed judgment, I'll tell you that.

Of course, I suppose I could have made that particular statement sometime earlier in my life, like, say, when they were _colouring my skin purple_.

Shudder.

Well, anyhow, I was luckily able to escape this particular run-in with them without having some unnatural skin colour inflicted upon me as punishment. As a matter of fact, it was quite easy; Wimmy just stared sadly at me for a moment longer before he allowed the other house elf to whisk him away, I went in and got my Butterbeer, and that was that.

By the time I left, I was feeling that the evening would probably manage to be reasonably easy, even in spite of the whole Christopher thing.

And then I made it to the stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower, and it began.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were standing there – not snapping at each other, but staring upward silently as though listening for something. Which really should have been a sign in itself, as those two standing in companionable silence is certainly enough to suggest an impending Apocalypse.

This, however, didn't occur to me right then; I was rather busy focusing upon chugging down as much Butterbeer as possible.

"Ron?" I asked as I approached them. "Hermione?"

They both spun around and stared at me, their expressions rather perplexed.

"What's going on?" I pressed.

"Ron forgot his Astronomy homework up in the tower, Professor," Hermione replied, still looking rather concerned. "We came up to get it."

"Oh," I said; it had yet to dawn on me that it was a bit strange they'd been too afraid to venture up their and get it themselves. "Well, it's perfectly fine with me – just go on up—"

"There's something . . . not right going on up there, Professor," Ron cut in awkwardly.

"Not right?" I repeated, bewildered. "What do you mea . . ."

But it turned out that completing my question wouldn't even prove necessary. Because from upstairs came—

"HOW DARE YOU?"

In Algernon's voice.

"Uh," Ron said, glancing briefly up the stairs. "Yeah. That pretty much covers it."

"We weren't really . . . sure whether we should go up there," Hermione added tentatively.

"It's probably best that you don't," I returned, in as calm and professional a tone as I could manage. "You two should return to your dormitories – don't worry about the assignment, Ron. I'll make sure to extend the due date for you."

Ron's face lit up at this; apparently, permission from a teacher to postpone schoolwork was all it took for him to forget completely about the fact that some chaotic life-or-death melee was currently taking place upstairs. "Really? Excellent!"

Hermione scowled at him.

Mark my words; in five years or so, they'll certainly be dating.

But I didn't exactly have the opportunity to reflect upon this then; instead, I shooed them off and then, rather terrified, made my way up the stairs.

As I did it, I tried to paint the most shocking scenario possible in my head so that what I actually saw upon arriving up there would pale in comparison. By the time I reached the last step, Algernon was dressed in a tutu and brandishing a telescope at Christopher, who suddenly sported a pencil-thin black moustache and a penchant for burying his face into the sweater that I'd accidentally left up there.

And really, in comparison, what I actually saw upon pushing open the door _would_ have been a bit of a letdown, were it not for someone else's presence that I certainly hadn't expected.

I suppose I could try and make it seem reasonably shocking that it was, in fact, Severus Snape, but as you already know that part, it seems a bit of a waste, doesn't it?

So, anyway, yes. Algernon was standing there, brandishing – more bizarrely than a telescope, perhaps – a bouquet of red roses in Snape's direction, whilst Snape flashed his nastiest sneer at him in response. Christopher was standing a bit off to the side, staring at them in wide-eyed bafflement.

"Now, I understand that you are finding yourself incapable of letting her go," Algernon was saying, in this very low, dangerous voice, "but I for one think it would be very, very wise indeed were you to leave her alone from now on. She wants nothing to do with you."

"I assure you, Brightmann, I am terrified indeed," Snape returned, breaking out the sarcasm like nobody's business. "Nothing suggests imminent doom quite like a bouquet of roses mere inches from one's face."

"You're a troubled man, Snape," Algernon informed him, but in a way that I could tell wasn't going to go over well, unlike when certain other people (read: me) tell him that sort of thing and he just smirks. "And while I simply find it pathetic and don't bother to care beyond that, your unwanted attention genuinely upsets her."

"On the contrary," Snape said, his eyes doing that glinting thing that can mean naught but true evil, "her attention is hardly something I seek – however, I can't say that she doesn't harbor a strange fixation on attaining mine."

At which point Algernon stared at him with a positively indecipherable expression for a moment before setting down the bouquet on a nearby desk.

Snape's triumphant smirk, however, didn't even have the opportunity to materialize fully before Algernon lunged forward and punched him in the jaw.

At which point I gasped, and Christopher yelled out, "You people are bloody mad!"

Getting punched in the jaw, however, apparently wasn't enough to distract Snape from his psycho-professor-from-hell duties. (A rather impressive amount of dedication, I must admit.)

" _What_ was that, Goldstein?"

"Auriga can't seriously be interested in you guys, can she?" Christopher demanded weakly.

"I assume you're referring to Professor Sinistra," Snape said coolly. "Though where you have attained the right to refer to her by her first name or critique her romantic selections is a very questionable matter indeed."

"Romantic selections?" Algernon interrupted fiercely. "It's hardly as though she _selected_ you. Quite the opposite, really—"

"You mean that rumour about you and her and the iguana was _true_?" Christopher asked, jaw dropping.

(Dear God. Does _everybody_ know? That's not exactly the kind of stuff you want going around.)

"Excuse us for a moment, Goldstein," Snape said, mock-courteously. "When we return, you and I shall certainly discuss the effect your comments will have regarding your House."

And then Snape and Algernon stepped outside, leaving Christopher to stand there looking appropriately doomed.

Upon regaining the ability to move, I made my way through the door and into the classroom. This happened to catch Christopher's attention, but the fact that I had his attention hardly seemed alarming considering the fact that my one true love and my . . . Snape were approximately two and a half seconds away from killing one another.

"I'm sorry," I said weakly, as an apology seemed strangely appropriate given the circumstances. "I didn't know that they would be here."

"Yeah," Christopher said numbly. "Quite the surprise."

"Quite," I agreed lamely.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment, the sounds of very angry voices drifting in from the balcony.

"So," I said, as standing in silence seemed to suggest a sort of intimacy that was quite simply wrong on three hundred and forty-six different levels. "Could this be rescheduled? I should really go and keep them from killing each other."

"Yes, perhaps that would be best," Christopher agreed, the sympathy in his tone suggesting wisdom beyond his years. Which, considering the situation, wasn't exactly something I welcomed with open arms. "I'll see you next class, then, Professor."

So by then, I was simply glad to be rid of him, but really, I should have known that that was just too simple. The utter lack of humiliation and potentially life-scarring instances in that little exchange should have been enough to tip me off.

As it was, he managed to catch me completely off-guard as he passed me and – smarmy little bastard – pressed a hand reassuringly against my arm.

"If you ever need someone a bit less . . ." He paused and flashed me a knowing smile. "You know. I'm here to talk."

Unfortunately, he removed his hand before I could shove him and disappeared down the stairs without another word. I had to be contented with shouting "I'll go to the iguana first, thank you very much!" after him and listening to it echo down the stairs.

I sort of stared after him, wallowing in my own misery, for a moment, before coming to my senses and realizing that Algernon and Snape could very well be murdering each other outside. And while this wasn't the sort of thing that I generally liked to get involved in, I figured that I might feel a bit guilty if one of them died all because I was too squeamish to risk being exposed to the sight of a bit of blood, or something.

And besides, honestly? Algernon seemed the more doomed of the two. He was just too _good_ to be able to triumph in any way over Snape.

And him surviving would probably benefit me a whole lot more than if Snape were to.

(Not that my heroic actions are selflessly motivated, or anything of the like.)

So I'd finally worked up the proper motivation to go out and pull them away from one another, when I heard a rather sickening crack and decided that maybe it would be best to stay away for a few more seconds. Because I know just how much Algernon would have tortured himself, were I to have rushed out there only to get hit by one of them or the like! My hesitation was purely out of love for him. Really.

And, well, because I really, _really_ can't stand the sight of blood. It makes me dizzy, and occasionally drives me to murmur nonsense words.

But mostly it was purely out of love!

So, anyway, it seemed to go a bit quiet, and I decided that now was as safe a time as any to head out there, and so I did. And stepped outside just in time to see Snape's hands flying out at Algernon and Algernon disappearing off the side of the Astronomy Tower.

And honestly, I'm not sure if I can bring myself to relay anymore. I suppose I _could_ go into detail about me screaming bloody murder at Snape, or McGonagall finding out about what had gone on, or me becoming irrationally angry at Algernon when we reached him again and sort of kicking him in the shoulder while he writhed on the ground in agony.

But really, none of it is anything I want to relive.

In conclusion, I am now single, sleep-deprived past the point of no return, sporting the worst hair ever, and really, really not getting along with Snape.

I suppose I could go talk to Christopher about it, as he seems very keen on that idea.

Hah.

There is nothing good about any of this. I've reached an all-time low, even for me.

But at least my skin isn't purple.

**8:20 A.M.**

Oh, who _cares_ if my skin isn't purple! I'm completely miserable! Optimism is a load of rubbish, I'll tell you that, and I'm through with it! And with men! And with . . . leaving my bed ever again.

I am in a state of utmost devastation. Nothing on this earth could possibly make me feel better.

I might as well just

**8:32 A.M.**

Can I marry a house-elf?

Because, all right, we've had our ups and downs, Wimmy and I. Mostly downs. Or possibly all downs. But just as I was about to delve into some really depressing proclamation, he came in and sort of stared at me for a moment before asking, "Is Miss Auriga all right, Miss?"

And I was just going to, you know, claim that I was in hopes that it would make him disappear.

But doing this suddenly seemed entirely pointless.

So instead I responded, feeling increasingly emotionally unbalanced as I did so, "No. No, Wimmy. Miss Auriga is quite miserable indeed."

His ears drooped down at this, and he took a few tentative steps toward me. "Is there anything Wimmy can do, Miss?"

"Anything you can do?" I asked, sniffling. "I thought you hated me."

"Hated Miss Auriga?" Wimmy repeated incredulously, and stepped closer. "No, Miss, not at all! Wimmy was trying to do so, but found that it was quite impossible." He paused, and then finished, quite reverently, "Miss Auriga is the most perfect lady Wimmy ever knew."

And, well, what was I _supposed_ to do, if not burst into tears and throw my arms around him?

And then after we pulled apart, he tucked me into bed and sang me a few stanzas of You Sexy Thing before apparently becoming satisfied that I was properly comfortable and disappearing back out into the hall.

It was very sweet of him, really. I'm not even all that disturbed by the fact that he blew me a kiss on the way out.

It is faintly reassuring, I suppose, that even if all of the men in my life decide to wreak havoc and devastation until I've practically lost the will to live altogether, I will still have my house elf to sing me tasteless 70s sex songs at the end of the day.

And on that note, I think I might actually attempt to get a bit of sleep.

Sweet dreams, Notebook.


	19. Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

** Friday, November 29, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**7:32 A.M.**

Well, here I am, then.

Lovely morning, don't you think?

I'll be going down to breakfast soon, of course. I just thought that perhaps I should jot a quick note in here first, saying that everything's quite all right with me, really. I'm just fine.

**7:33 A.M.**

No, really.

I _am_.

**7:34 A.M.**

Why, does that seem hard to believe or something? Because really, believe you me, Notebook, it is God's honest truth.

Yes, admittedly, my life is, at times, rather unfortunate.

But that doesn't mean that it always has to be, or that just because someone gets pushed off a tower the entire world has to come screeching to a halt.

I can embrace the darker aspects of my past and then put them behind me. And move on to be a stronger, more capable person.

That whole incident with the pushing was simply a test of character. And personally, I'd like to think I passed.

I _was_ in Ravenclaw, mind. Passing tests was something I did quite well, back in the day.

And I'm passing this test. With top marks. Hermione Granger-type marks! Or maybe even marks that might make Hermione Granger a bit envious!

Yes, that's right.

So you can just stop being concerned about me, Notebook, because there's no reason to be.

**7:36 A.M.**

Honestly.

**Great Hall**

**7:45 A.M.**

I suppose all of that could've come off as rather hypocritical, considering the fact that I happened to very recently refer to optimism as 'completely useless and altogether quite stupid.'

But I'm _not_ being optimistic. Rather, I like to think that I'm being . . . logical. Because it quite simply does not seem possible, that one's life could get _worse_ than mine has been as of late. It can only get better.

And so I'm just going to sit around, pleasantly as I can manage, and wait until it does.

See?

Logical.

**7:47 A.M.**

I'm not even bothered by the fact that Snape is sitting a few chairs away from me, scowling into his goblet and occasionally glancing around at everyone as though disgusted to be stuck in the same room with them. Really, so _what_ if he pushed my boyfriend from a very, very high surface to his near-death and then proceeded to tell me that aforementioned boyfriend certainly wouldn't want to be with me any longer? (Which, er, proved to be true, but that is hardly the point right now.)

So what?

Yeah, that's right.

Where Severus Snape is concerned, from now on my attitude shall be one of complete and utter 'so what?'

The man isn't worth the ink that it's taking to write this, even.

And so I will stop writing about him.

After all, that would be the logical thing to do, and I am very suave where logic is concerned, as of late.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:25 A.M.**

Aww! I've just come back to my room, and while I was at breakfast, Wimmy left me a few Butterbeers, a bouquet of flowers, and a Get Well Soon card covered in Marvin Gaye lyrics.

He's a very thoughtful house elf, really.

And a very dear one. And I'm lucky to have him. And these flowers are just lovely. And there really is a certain poetic beauty to the phrase "if the spirit moves ya, let me groove ya."

See, Notebook? Everything is improving already!

**8:28 A.M.**

And, er, just a quick note regarding something. I mean, it's probably completely foolish, and not the sort of thing that would even be assumed anyway, but I figure it's better to be safe than sorry.

So – ahem—

I do _not_ want to, er, get it on with Wimmy. Just because I called him thoughtful, and dear, and said I was lucky to have him and all of that, well, that doesn't mean that I'm . . . you know, getting a bit odd where my . . . more carnal interests are concerned. He's just a friend, that's all! A friend that's been there for me in a very difficult time!

And, really, even _thinking_ such a thing judging by my comments up there is just a bit sick-minded, you know. Or perhaps more than a bit! That's taking something that expresses great gratitude and platonic admiration, and warping it into this disgusting, preposterous . . . You'd have to be utterly delusional to even _think_ –

I feel about Wimmy the way I feel about certain other people that I would never, you know, groove with. Or let groove me. Or . . . well, you know.

He's like . . . my mother, for example. My mother is thoughtful (occasionally) and dear (er, at times she is, anyway) and I'm, um, lucky to have her. Because otherwise I might make the mistake of feeling content with my life for a moment, and pleased despite the fact that I don't have a husband and will doubtlessly be very much alone for the rest of my life (the occasional cat or house elf not included), therefore leaving her deprived of grandchildren and possibly discontinuing our entire family line because does anyone really expect _Lyra_ to settle down and start a family? Lyra is such a sweet girl – such a beautiful, talented, charming girl – and she's never shown any interest in being tied down to such domestic things. But with good reason. And reason that my mum and dad support entirely, and I should as well, because Lyra really is remarkable and perhaps if I were a bit _more_ like her— but as it is, really, I seem the type that wouldn't really ever be happy with myself without a husband, as I'm just an old-fashioned girl like that and I _really_ should try harder with the Sleekeazy's and maybe make an attempt to improve my appearance at least a _bit_ on occasion because if I don't even try, then how can I expect to _ever_ find a nice, decent man? What – is he just supposed to fall on his knees before me one day, completely randomly and without the slightest amount of motivation to do so? Because if I choose to believe that, then I am living in a very ridiculous fairytale world indeed, and might as well start picking out names for kittens as soon as possible – how do I feel about 'Gretel'?

Er.

Ahem.

I love my family. Honestly. They're all . . . very dear.

Especially Lyra.

And it's probably a good thing that my mother reminds me of that particular fact so often, because otherwise I might forget. And that would certainly be nightmarish beyond all comprehension.

Uh, yes. What was my point, again?

Oh, right.

I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH MY HOUSE ELF.

So honestly.

Just get your mind out of the gutter.

**8:33 A.M.**

Also, I would _never_ name a cat Gretel.

 _Who_ would name a cat Gretel, unless they're planning on having it – oh, I don't know, eaten by a witch with a house made of catnip, or something? It's just _cruel_. That's what it is.

Honestly, it is a small wonder that I have gone through my life mispronouncing my own name, thanks to the influence of my mother.

**8:34 A.M.**

Who is thoughtful and a dear and I am lucky to have her.

**8:35 A.M.**

It's a wonderful life.

**8:36 A.M.**

Though I could have done with a bit more butterbeer.

**8:37 A.M.**

And maybe a Firewhisky.

**9:00 A.M.**

Oh, how lovely – Victoria's just stopped by and told me that I should come over and have a chat in the Arithmancy classroom during her free period at ten thirty.

I'm quite blessed, you know, when you think about it. Not only do I have Wimmy, but I've also got a very sweet best friend who's concerned about the ordeal I went through recently and wants to help me get through this difficult time.

Even though she's so much prettier and so much more witty and sophisticated than I am, and gives me ample cause to be thoroughly bitter and consumed by loathing, I really do adore her.

**9:02 A.M.**

And, just for the record, I don't want to have sex with her either.

**AstronomyTower**

**11:40 A.M.**

  1. AM GOING. TO KILL HER.



**11:41 A.M.**

And that's that.

**11:42 A.M.**

What? You think I won't? Oh, really, is that it? You think 'Oh, yes, of course, of _course_ you are, Auriga; of _course_ you're going to murder the woman who, up until a half an hour or so ago, was your closest friend in the world, because you _always_ do what you say and _never_ overreact or exaggerate.'

Well, you can just BLOODY WELL FUCK OFF! Yeah – that's right! D'you know, I am sick to _death_ of your attitude! Always questioning me, glaring up at me with all your scrawled-in-my-handwriting words, _mocking_ me! 'Oh, you must be in love with Snape!' 'I truly believe that you're _not_ lusting over the student who's so overcome with passion for you and bears a strange resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart!' 'Oh, of _course_ you don't want to have a dirty affair with your house elf!' 'Yeah, yeah, I'm positive you're going to go through with the whole killing-your-best-friend idea!'

Maybe I _will_ , for all you know! I mean, she deserves it. She honestly deserves to be force-fed to the giant squid, or Polyjuice Potion'd into me, or something. Hah! That would teach her a lesson, indeed! Maybe then that way she'd begin to understand what it's like to be normal, like the rest of us lowly beings, and along with that particular epiphany understand that it is in no way okay to interfere like that! Oh, she thinks she's so brilliant and crafty and sly, and that there's _no possible way_ her ingenious ideas might go utterly and completely wrong.

Hah. Yeah. _Flawless_ execution of that little plan of hers, except for the part where _my boyfriend nearly died_.

Therefore forcing me to break up with him.

But it's the 'nearly died' part that upsets me the most, of course.

Ohhh – ohhh, I could just . . . I don't even know what I could do! But something bad! Something very, very bad! I could kick Mrs. Norris in Filch's plain sight, or . . . or take twenty points from Hufflepuff if one of them dares to get on my nerves! Oooh, how I'd _love_ to put that pompous little Ernie MacMillan in his place—

. . . Oh, all right, I can't do it.

I mean, I thought that perhaps I could for a moment – you know, actually say vicious things about my students. They tend to make my life miserable on occasion, after all!

It's just that, well, when you've got colleagues like mine, even Draco Malfoy seems something akin to heaven sent.

And I don't hate Ernie! Honestly! All right, yes, he bothers me on occasion, but – but that's usually when I'm not running on a lot of sleep, or when he's pointed out an error in one of my lessons or something.

But I don't _hate_ him.

And I wouldn't take twenty points from him unjustly.

And . . . and well, honestly, now I feel a bit guilty. Even though I know that there's no possible way he'll ever be able to read this, I almost feel like maybe he could have . . . _sensed_ it, or something. And now he hates me, because I'm Professor Sinistra, the mean old hag who takes points away irrationally and wants to murder her own best friend and uses deeply inappropriate expressions like 'fuck off.' It's all very distressing, really, and can a boy of eleven _really_ cope with that kind of information hitting him all at once?

It's a bit like in Peter Pan. You know, that thing about where every time a child says they don't believe in fairies, a fairy falls down dead.

Maybe it's the same.

Maybe every time a teacher says (or writes, or thinks) something mean about a student, the student dies.

. . . Um, a little. Inside.

Because if it were actual _death_ , well, we'd have a student body of perhaps seven, considering the fact that Snape is in fact a teacher here.

Though, admittedly, even the dying-a-little-inside thing seems unlikely.

But I just . . . feel bad about it. That's all.

The next time he corrects me about the moons of Jupiter or what have you, I will, instead of feeling vaguely annoyed, award him five points for being so observant.

Yep.

All right, I feel a bit better now.

**11:46 A.M.**

. . . except for the part where _Victoria Vector must burn_.

I somehow managed to distract myself from it for a moment, but now it's back again. And I – oh, it's just that I _cannot believe her_. Why would anyone in their right mind even think to . . . when it's _so_ obvious that . . . and there's a _huge_ chance that everything might just . . . and . . .

It is entirely insane.

And, um, perhaps I should relay what actually happened. Maybe that way, I'll be able to actually complete a coherent sentence.

(But don't you dare get offended if I scratch a few holes in the parchment whilst relaying. Once I'm done, I'm sure you'll agree that a little extra force is _completely_ understandable and in fact rather justified at present.)

So, at around ten thirty, I headed over to the Arithmancy classroom, feeling rather touched and lucky and all. To have a friend to talk to, you know. A friend that was concerned about my well-being and the awful ordeal that I'd been forced through so recently.

(HAH.)

When I got there, Victoria was putting textbooks back on the shelves and looking completely innocent, as though she wasn't holding any dark and terrible secret that might lead me to want to rip all of her limbs off, grind them up, and feed them to her. (Er, don't mind that; just my inner Slytherin talking. It seems to be flourishing again lately.)

I said hello and everything, and tried to seem as perfectly okay as I could. Personally, I think I was doing quite a wonderful job of it, but she just looked at me with her eyes filled with pity, went "Oh, Auriga" in a way that made me want to burst into tears for no reason in general, and immediately crossed the room to envelop me in a huge hug.

Maybe then I should have realized that something was a bit wrong. That she had done something that wasn't exactly easily forgivable. Victoria isn't usually the compassionate sort, unless her attention is being focused upon a man that she needs for some reason or another. (She really is a completely filthy whore. How did I neglect to notice this until now?)

Well, after that we sat down and had a bit of tea, and everything was going fine – her inquiring about how I was, myself stoically and graciously insisting that I was doing perfectly well – until she suggested that I tell her precisely what had happened. It seemed a very innocent inquiry at the time.

And, well, at that point in time, why _should_ I have had any qualms about telling her? She _was_ my best friend, after all. ('Was,' of course, being the operative word.)

And so I told her and she listened all attentively, nodding and making little comments at the precisely right moments. It really was feeling a bit nice, to get it all out in the open – sort of freeing – and for a second I was struck by the idea that maybe I _was_ okay with it.

Not, er, that I wasn't to begin with. Anyway. And . . . all.

In any case!

Then I reached the part where I went to see Algernon in his room at St. Mungo's, and the whole bit about him thinking Snape thought he and I were engaged came up. And I asked, idly and more to myself than to her, " _Why_ would Snape think that Algernon and I were getting married?"

I was expecting her to respond with, I don't know, a nice "Good question!" or heartfelt "That's utterly ridiculous."

Oh, no.

Instead, I got:

"Ah. Well, because I told him so, I suppose."

My jaw may or may not have hit the floor in that moment. (Oh, all right, so I'm relatively certain it didn't, but it makes for more dramatic storytelling. And you can just shut up, or I'll be breaking out the vulgar phrases again. Don't you think I won't.)

Honestly, for a moment I thought I'd misunderstood her. It was just the _way_ she said it – all loftily, as though it were no big deal at all, and not part of the reason that Algernon's spine had been forced to endure such suffering.

Finally, my jaw decided to cooperate long enough to let me utter a very mystified " _What_?"

"Oh, Auriga," she said then, in this very calm, borderline-patronizing sort of way that I can't focus on for very long or else I think I honestly might do something destructive. (And that is in no way a vague threat. The openness of it simply makes it more mysterious. And therefore more frightening. As people tend to fear the unknown, and all. Yes, that's right.) "I was doing it for your own good, of course."

I blinked. It did not seem a very feasible response. "You told Snape that I was getting married to a man I'd only just started dating . . . for my own good?"

"Precisely," Victoria said with a curt nod, completely unperturbed. (Oh, the hate. It burns. _Sizzles_ , really. And is very unpleasant and I'm afraid I might spontaneously combust any second now.) "It was a step that needed to be taken."

Flabbergasted, I stammered out, "Well . . . _why_?"

"Because," she said, tone still maddeningly calm as a radiant smile spread across her face, "it was the clearly the easiest way to go about getting you and Snape paired off."

I'm not exactly sure how to relay my response to this. I'm not sure it can be spelled out in letters, precisely. It was sort of a squeak mixed with a whimper, with an alarming dash of grunt thrown in. (I haven't the slightest clue where that came from.)

Victoria seemed to have expected as much. "Oh, come on, Auriga. I know that the two of you have so much fun with your little game, dancing around each other and pretending that both of you don't just desperately want to transform that little two-step into a horizontal tango as soon as humanly possible—"

The sound I made at that might adequately be described as a squawk.

"—but it's _painfully_ obvious to everyone else, especially me." She had the nerve to actually smirk a little. I thought this very rude of her, considering at the time I didn't even have the ability to make a sound commonly associated with the human species. "And when you started seeing Algernon, you could tell at once that it was just driving him completely mad."

My highly skeptical 'Oh, it was not!' somehow managed to transform into a could-be-classified-as-eager " _Really_?" in the time it took for the words to move from my brain to my mouth.

"Of course," Victoria said, as if this were no big deal, and waved a dismissive hand. "And even though he was going crazy watching the two of you together, and then being forced to live with the knowledge that you were head over heels for another man – well, you know Snape. That wasn't enough to wipe the repulsive sneer off his face and actually get him to _do_ something about it, God forbid. By the way, I really don't know what you see in him."

"I don't see anything!" I snapped. By now, it was starting to set in that perhaps I was going to have to get at least a bit angry with her.

"Yes, yes, of course you don't," Victoria said, thoroughly unconvinced, and went on. "Anyhow, I knew that drastic measures were necessary, in order for him to do anything more than just sulk around the dungeons envisioning you and Algernon in various romantic scenarios. Not only that, I knew that _you_ needed him – and badly, at that – and so I hinted to him that it looked as though you and Algernon were considering getting married." She fell silent and smiled a little, as though expecting to be praised for a job well done.

At the present time, I can manage nothing more than a very incensed mental 'grrr!' at the thought of it.

"But," was all I was able to manage, on account of the fact that my entire brain seemed to have gone numb. "But . . . but he pushed Algernon off a _tower_ because of it."

Victoria nodded, frowning slightly. "Yes. I hadn't expected that. I guess things didn't go exactly the way I'd expected them to. Ah well," she threw in, and grinned encouragingly at me, "you're a single gal now. You know, I'd understand if you wanted to leave right now and just mosey on down to the dungeons—"

The anger was setting in quite quickly by now.

"What are you _talking_ about?" I demanded irritably. "What, do you feel like you've done me some sort of – of _favour_ , or something!"

"Yes," Victoria returned, completely oblivious to the fact that I rather wanted to yank her hair out, "but really, love, you don't have to thank me or anything – just the fact that you and Snape will finally get around to shagging and getting rid of all that God-awful unresolved sexual tension is certainly repayment enough—"

" _Victoria_!"

"It's true!" she protested lightly. "It's completely God-awful. I swear, it does something to the air; everything always feels all scorching and repressed whenever the two of you are in a room together. Not to be awarding any blame, dear, but it makes a girl _very_ vexed indeed by the fact that her fiancé's currently in Paris, if you know what I mean—"

" _VICTORIA_!"

"Oh, what?" she snapped, sounding annoyed at having been interrupted.

"You didn't _help_ anything!" Honestly, I felt close to tears by then – something made even more distressing by how completely relaxed she seemed about the whole terrible thing. "I've broken up with someone who I really cared about – someone who I could've had something _good_ with. That's not exactly common, you know, when you don't look like you've got Veela somewhere in your bloodline."

She opened her mouth to say something at that, but I wasn't exactly keen on hearing it, and instead just kept on going.

"Not only that, but Snape is furious with me," I informed her. "So, you know, I kind of doubt there will be any horizontal tangoing anytime in the future anyway! Not," I threw in dangerously, "that I would even want there to be in the first place! And besides—" I paused to cross my arms in front of my chest and fix my most potent glare at her, "—what on earth gave you the idea that I _needed_ him so badly, or whatever nonsense that was, anyway?"

And here, for the first time, she actually began to look ashamed of herself. "I . . ."

"Yes?" I prompted, as menacingly as I could.

"I read your diary," she said, clearly and evenly. She looked straight into my eyes while she said it, and everything. Whoever taught her how to make a shameful confession was clearly under the influence of many a Billywig sting.

" _WHAT_?"

"I read your diary," she repeated, as composed as could be. "Quite awhile ago. And it was – oh, Auriga, I'm doing this because I'm concerned about you. You _must_ know that it's not healthy."

"What?" I demanded, well on my way to working myself into a full-on rage at that point. "Keeping a _diary_?"

"No, not 'keeping a diary.' Auriga," she went on, and stared at me very sympathetically, "we both know that's not a normal diary."

Which I found utterly bewildering.

"And _why_ is that, precisely?" I inquired angrily. "Just because I tend to call it 'Notebook' sometimes doesn't mean that it's not normal – loads of people write 'Dear _Diary_ ,' anyway! What's so peculiar—"

"You don't have to pretend about it, Auriga," Victoria said solemnly. "I know. I read it. I read the Snape fantasy."

It was the sort of thing that could only be responded to by another " _What_?"

"Oh, Auriga, it got me worried, that was all," Victoria said, biting her lip and becoming positively the perfect picture of concern. "I mean, you constructing elaborate stories with Dumbledore addicted to Fizzing Whisbees and Snape hanging us all from our fingernails, and then something about the two of you having an impassioned connection, and—"

"What?" I repeated, baffled. "No! That was just—"

"A cry for help, that's what it was, and you're lucky I found it," Victoria said, her voice maddeningly comforting. "Auriga, you can't spin out fantasies so elaborately. If you don't just go for it and actually get with him soon, I'm . . . I'm afraid that you just might lose your grasp on reality."

"I am _not_ losing my grasp on reality!" I protested angrily.

"Auriga, the things you write in there," she said softly, "they're having an odd effect on you. Maybe you don't realize it, but they are – I mean, how many fantasies have you constructed in there?"

"It was just that one!" I cried. "I was just feeling a bit out of it, that was all; I don't normally—"

"You've been acting differently ever since you first started writing in it," Victoria said, tone so compassionate it made me rather want to strangle her. "You need to stop it, Auriga. _Everyone_ suspects it's the reason you've been acting so – you know – odd."

"Well, then everyone's a gigantic idiot!" I snapped. "It's just a _notebook_ —"

"I'd give it up if I were you," Victoria said, her tone positively soaked in quiet conviction. "And I think I'd give him up, too."

As it was, I couldn't bring myself to come up with a better response than "Oh, _honestly_!"

And so that's what I said, with as much fury as I could muster, and then stormed out.

I was careful to knock my teacup over onto her designer robes before I left, too.

(See? There's that inner-Slytherin again.)

And, well, I just . . . _HONESTLY._ She can't be right, can she? I mean, of course she's not. Most of the people in the school probably haven't even noticed that I keep a diary to begin with! She's just exaggerating, of course, trying to make me feel like an idiot, not even _bothering_ to listen when I can explain that I am in fact not the insane one so much as she is.

She is the reason that Snape went insane and nearly killed the most perfect man I've ever met. She is the reason that Algernon and I are no more. She is the reason that I will undoubtedly own a cat named Gretel in forty years or so. And – as if all of this weren't enough – _she insulted my notebook_.

Where the hell she gets the nerve, I can't even begin to guess, and frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to waste my time thinking about anything the slightest bit related to her. I don't want anything to do with her ever again.

 _Really_.

Who does she think she is, anyway?

Like what she says even has the slightest impression upon me.

I'm not completely susceptible to it, the way some greasy, soulless Potions masters are.

**3:45 P.M.**

I've given this a lot of thought, and I don't think I'm going to be able to write in you anymore.

Or at least, not as often as I do now. And not when other people are around.

It's not that I'm ashamed of you, or that I don't want anyone to know about it. It's not your fault at all, really! It's not you – it's me, it's completely me, and I'm admitting that right now.

It's just that, well, perhaps it would be the wisest course of action if, for awhile, no one saw me writing in you. And maybe if I even took a bit of a hiatus, in case I ever feel compelled to write something insane and involving Fizzing Whisbees and Snape again.

I'll still think about you, of course, and care about you. Nothing's going to stop any of that. I just . . . feel like I need to let go for awhile. To find out who I am without you.

**3:48 P.M.**

But, oh, let's still be friends.

**3:52 P.M.**

I honestly do not know how to feel about the fact that I just broke up with my diary far more eloquently than I did my boyfriend.

**3:53 P.M.**

Perhaps a little break _is_ somewhat necessary.


	20. The Peril To End All Perils

** Tuesday, December 3, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:14 A.M.**

ARGH. Really, I don't know why some people

** Friday, December 6, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**6:20 P.M.**

If Professor Trelawney offers to "lend voice to all the unseemly aspects of my immediate feature through palmistry" _one more time,_ so help me, I'll

** Sunday, December 8, 1991 **

**Astronomy** **Tower**

**1:40 A.M.**

I KNOW THE WEASLEY TWINS ARE BEHIND THIS, AND BELIEVE YOU ME, NOTEBOOK, I

** Wednesday, December 18, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**11:12 A.M.**

It seems I've broken myself of my addiction to you. I have become fully capable of enduring and accepting life's little agonies without having to draft anguished chronicles about them beforehand. I . . . am a free woman.

HAH!

**11:15 A.M.**

. . . Not that we can't still be friends.

** Thursday, December 19, 1991 **

**Great Hall**

**8:08 A.M.**

OH DEAR GOD _NO_.

**8:10 A.M.**

I am going to explain something to you, but beforehand, you have to promise not to judge. It is going to sound faintly appalling, but really, after all of the stuff I've written about Snape in here, one would hope that you've developed enough tolerance to be able to take it. It does not involve anything about pushing people off towers or hanging by fingernails, or even irregular showering schedules. Really, in comparison to all of that, it's downright acceptable. It's just . . .

I hate Christmas.

Well. That _does_ sound sort of awful, doesn't it? Like it should be followed by a hearty 'bah humbug!' and a kitten massacre, or something. It's not like that, precisely! It's just . . . this whole holly jolly time of year tends to get so dreadfully stressful. The students get unnaturally unruly and the staff seems to harbor this great obligation to be festive since we've all got to stick around. Well, we don't _have_ to, necessarily, but a fair amount of kids wind up staying each year, and the teachers that do take off anyway tend to wind up blacklisted by their colleagues throughout the first half of January. (Coincidentally, Victoria leaves for Paris this weekend. Hmph.)

Anyway, from this apparently desperate need for holiday unity and delight blossomed . . . the Hogwarts Faculty Secret Santa Gift Exchange.

Although it had been going on for quite awhile before I came to work here, I am still utterly certain that Dumbledore is responsible for this concept. And while the idea of gifts sounds charming in theory, it is a whole other matter in actuality. Have you ever tried to buy a present for Minerva McGonagall? How about Sibyl Trelawney? Or perhaps – a man who thinks you're slightly incontrovertibly mad just because you on occasion stop by his quarters when he happens to be shirtless? (I have since learned that in this particular situation, buying them a particularly itchy sweater and then joking about how they will probably just want to fling it off at the first given opportunity is not exactly a socially graceful way to handle things.)

So, yes. And in addition to the agonies inspired by this joyous tradition, there's the fact that Christmas rather tends to just make me feel miserable. I suppose this is dreadful of me, and instead I should just be overwhelmed with a new sense of gratitude that I'm not one of those people who spends all their time in The Leaky Cauldron getting smashed and professing their undying love to Tom the toothless bartender. (Not that Tom the toothless bartender doesn't deserve any love, of course, and not that I'm in the position to judge. Granted, I'm not toothless, but I'm still not precisely a fine catch.) I've got a job and a home – sort of – and friends – er, well, former friends and a house elf, at least. But there's just something undeniably lonely and _sad_ about watching Professor McGonagall get tipsy and oddly coquettish with Hagrid year after year while Dumbledore has entirely too much fun with the wizard crackers and even more fun torturing Snape with them. (All right. Perhaps this part is slightly enjoyable. But the disturbing Hagrid-and-McGonagall antics cancel it out quite spectacularly.) It's just . . . I tend to just sit there and eat ungodly and extremely regrettable amounts and never do anything particularly interesting, save the time Snape got cajoled into wearing a pink beret and I laughed so hard I accidentally spit a mouthful of pumpkin juice onto Professor Flitwick. When I'm not spraying various parts of my meal all over my colleagues, I seem rather doomed to be uninteresting and ignored. And, yes, technically I do deal with this year round, but there's something particularly depressing about it on Christmas.

And as if all of this weren't enough, well . . .

There is a piece of stationary sitting to the right of you as I write this. It's not particularly intimidating, as far as stationary goes – white with a tasteful pink-rose border. It isn't bewitched to attack my head at my slightest movement, or anything of the like. (Not that this has happened. Or if it has, let it be known that I did not, theoretically, lose either my calm or liberal amounts of hair in the slightest. Or sink to swearing everlasting vengeance upon those detestable little theoretical wenches of Slytherin girls. DAMN YOU, NARCISSA BLACK. Theoretically.) Oh, no. You see, it's more what the perfect, swirling handwriting holds that leads to my unquestionable destruction.

Ahem.

I quote:

"Dear Auriga,

Your father has decided to accompany your sister to Egypt this Christmas to meet that new young man she's dating – what a life our Lyra is leading! – but I must admit, the idea of all that sand and heat doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. Christmas is a time for softly falling snow and cups of hot cocoa by a nice roaring fire. Camels and pyramids certainly don't factor into the equation!

But more than anything, Christmas is a time for family. And while I'll be missing your father and sister terribly, I thought that it would indeed be wisest to make the best of an unfortunate situation. I've contemplated the idea for a few days, and have reached the decision that it would be positively charming to spend Christmas with my dear baby girl. After all, Auriga, I haven't seen you since this summer, and have become quite curious as to what's going on in your life. I'm sure you'll rush to assure me that there is nothing in particular, but I know how to appreciate the little things, and besides, I would quite like to meet this Algernon fellow you were so very enamored with when you wrote last. Not to mention that seeing Hogwarts again would be an absolute delight – I did used to get such a kick out of Minerva and the rest of the gang!

Your father and sister are leaving on the 23rd, so I figured I would do the same. After all, houses _do_ get so lonely without one's husband around – I'm not sure how long a silly old housewife like myself could stand it! Ah, there I go, prattling off about something you must find utterly bewildering. I'm sorry, darling. Perhaps if you tread carefully with this Mr. Brightmann . . .

But of course, we'll have all the time in the world to discuss this once I see you!

Kisses!

Mother."

**8:18 A.M.**

Perhaps, if I am very, very nice to Snape, he'll consider pushing me off the Astronomy Tower, too.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:44 P.M.**

I am at a loss.

I mean, _honestly_. Am I supposed to know what to do at this point? I hate him. I do. He ruined my one promising relationship on this side of ever – and not even in any sort of mediocre, average fashion, either! Oh, no. He broke his _spine_. When it comes to malevolence and general revolting cruelty, Severus Snape is the unparalleled master. Also, he's very, very mean to me. _After_ breaking my boyfriend's spine. Where does anyone get the right, I ask you, to gallivant through life being entirely unpleasant as is and _then_ going and doing things like that as though they're perfectly entitled to? Just because he's an ex-Death Eater with very severely defined facial features doesn't mean that he has the right to go around saying mercilessly sarcastic things and diminishing one's self esteem and kicking puppies. (Oh, really, don't act so surprised. If Severus Snape _hasn't_ kicked a puppy at sometime in his life, then I'm Celestina Warbeck.) _I hate him._

And yet.

D'you know, I think I may very well be able to blame it all on the fact that he always seems to show up whenever I'm especially emotionally unhinged. I'm nearly out of my mind from sleep deprivation and murmuring (perfectly innocent and non-sexual, I am very sure) things about him in the middle of the library? He's there. I'm slightly put out about the fact that there is a gigantic, bloodthirsty troll rampaging the castle? He's there. I'm faintly disturbed by the fact that one of my students would no sooner kick me out of bed than Snape _wouldn't_ kick a puppy? He's there. (Possibly because I went to see him where this particular matter was concerned, but that's hardly the point at present.)

This incident was very much like those incidents. In that they were not my fault, and indeed seemed to support more than anything else the possibility that Snape may very well be stalking me.

I was wandering the castle, as I am wont to do, reflecting upon the vastness of my misfortune. Because as if the news that my mother has decided to come make this the worst Christmas in the history of time _wasn't_ enough, this afternoon we all drew names for the gift exchange, and I wound up with Slatero Quirrell. Yes, _that_ Slatero Quirrell. The one who's _evil_. In cahoots with You-Know-Who. Capable of killing all of us where we stand at any given moment. What on _earth_ am I supposed to get for Slatero Quirrell? Somehow a dragon snow globe does not seem precisely fitting. I can't even walk past the man in the hall anymore without nearly collapsing onto the floor, unconscious. And, well, what with his being evil and able to kill me and all, the pressure is _on_.

This, paired with horrifying imaginings of what on earth I was going to tell my mother about why she couldn't meet Algernon, all made for quite the melancholy corridor stroll.

Which, as it so happened, quickly switched from melancholy to potentially psychologically disturbing when I turned a corner and spotted Christopher walking toward me from the opposite end of the hall. He seemed lost in conversation with a girl in his year and didn't spot me, but I knew all too well that the younger sort weren't likely to keep his attention for long. And, really, in the state I was in – with an enormous list of generally distressing problems, no boyfriend, no best friend, and one increasingly irritating house elf whose Barry White renditions somehow left something to be desired – I was quite positive that there was no way I would escape a conversation with him without at least one hearty swat around the head making an appearance. (I feel almost compelled to bring up to Dumbledore at the next staff meeting that sometimes, violence quite simply _is_ the answer, even with a student involved. However, no matter how persuasively I phrase it in my head, I just cannot see this ever going over well.)

So I did the only thing that I could do –

Leapt into the nearest conveniently located empty classroom and hid up against the wall until I heard him pass.

It just so happened to be the conveniently located empty classroom that happened to be storing The Mirror of Erised.

Dumbledore had informed us that he planned to make use of it this year, but _really_ – does leaving it in empty classrooms alongside bunches of unused desks really seem like a responsible way to handle something one plans to make use of? That man's motives are entirely beyond me.

And, really, as soon as I realized what it was, I thoroughly intended to leave without taking so much as a peep. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that my life isn't precisely ideal at present, and somehow I suspected that catching a glimpse of what I so desperately desire to be seemed slightly idiotic.

I took exactly four and a half steps before determining that one tiny peek certainly couldn't hurt.

(Note to self: I am idiotic. Slightly.)

It hurt. I mean, it's not as though anything I saw was a great shock, or anything; I didn't discover any steamy subconscious desires or what have you. (If I were speaking to Victoria, that in itself would most certainly merit a triumphant 'HAH!') But at the same time, well . . . it's just not all that nice, you know? Having to face everything that you don't have and certainly can never attain even though it's not all that difficult, simply because you've such a talent for irreversibly tearing your own life to shreds.  
There was me, looking all glowy and slightly radiant although there were no detectable traces of makeup, with my hair somehow managing to be curly without venturing forth into frizzy . . . looking into a mirror and having a rather attractive and together version of myself staring back out is disquieting, to say the least. And then, of course, the _people_ had to show up: Victoria beaming at me in a way that seemed to suggest great friendship rather than mocking and superiority and all those things that she's far too good at; my parents off to the side, grinning and proud; Algernon smiling at me with a single rose concealed rather ineffectively behind his back; Snape lurking almost out of sight to the left of me, not looking particularly pleasant or anything, but just . . . _there._ To bicker with, or throw things at. And for some reason, this was enough to set me off completely. I'm quite sure I was doomed for an emotional breakdown from the very start, but something about Snape, all hovering and detestably overgrown bat-like, was what really shoved me over the edge.

And so there I was, standing in front of the mirror and embarrassing myself horribly in front of a far superior version of myself; after approximately four seconds of valiantly attempting to fight it, I just let myself go completely, figuring that perhaps I'd earned a good cry after everything that had happened lately. Besides, it seemed the best place to do it: wandering around the halls crying tended to frighten the children, there was always a chance that a student (Hermione Granger or Christopher, most likely) might show up in the Astronomy Tower, and somehow I've come to feel a bit guilty having crying fits left and right in my quarters when Wimmy is around. The poor dear tries so hard to console me, but there's only so many times I can listen to a soothing version of You Sexy Thing before it's going to have no effect save making me cry harder.

And so an abandoned classroom seemed as good as any place, really, and indeed, I did sob on quite nicely interrupted for perhaps two minutes before being rudely interrupted by—

"Ah, yes. I should have known."

Automatically, my gaze flew to reflection Snape, but he just stood there, all silent and oddly appealing. Which, of course, meant . . .

"What're you doing here?" I demanded in a way that I fancy might have been quite menacing if it hadn't been interrupted by a rather pronounced whimper.

"I was making my way down the corridor when I found myself detained by sounds eerily reminiscent to those of a cat being slowly tortured," he responded smoothly. "Had I known its actual origin, I would have kept walking, I assure you."

Somewhere in the back of my mind the cat-being-tortured thing seemed to click (fits right in with kicking puppies, if I do say so), but I was a bit too distressed to put the two together fully at that time. Instead, I grumbled, "Well, you can go now."

"And leave you here to bemoan the supreme agonies of your existence?" He smirked slightly. "That seems hardly gallant."

"Shut up," I ordered, attempting to wipe my tears away with my sleeve with as much angry empowerment as possible.

"My dear lady disdain," he murmured to himself, all smooth and cruelly amused and generally irritating. Bringing Shakespeare into the conversation when one of its participants isn't coherent enough to successfully recite the alphabet isn't exactly fair.

And therefore, I suppose, utterly fitting of Snape.

"Are you ever not a bastard?" I inquired, feeling rather betrayed upon discovering that the vast amounts of Much Ado About Nothing love I harbor hadn't been enough to aid me in finding some speedy and scathingly clever reply.

"My, my, Auriga," he said softly, eyes glinting, "aren't we charming this evening?"

"Screw off, Snape."

"Downright enchanting," he determined, his lips twisting up into a smile. He just stood there for a moment, smiling to himself at my misfortune or something equally lovely and Snape-ish while I struggled to look like I hadn't been crying. This was hindered slightly by the fact that I was still crying.

"Pray tell, Auriga," he finally began, as apparently leaving after taking a moment to bask in my misery simply wouldn't have been enough for him, "what led you to select this particular spot to lament your countless agonies?"

"Go away."

"Why—" Whatever awful thing he had to say to me, though, trailed off into silence as he finally caught sight of the mirror.

"Ah," he said, almost to himself, after a moment. Then he went silent, which, considering how cruel the things he comes up with are even when he _doesn't_ have a moment to prepare, really didn't bode well. I figured I might as well take a stand, lest I spend the entire night a weepy, inconsolable mess.

"Spare me," I instructed him shortly.

"What?"

"Spare me," I repeated more boldly. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it."

He frowned. "Auriga—"

"Yes, my life is a miserable mess," I snapped. "Yes, it continues to get worse and worse. Excuse me for finding it _slightly_ upsetting to look into a mirror and see everything all fine and lovely when in real life nothing looks like it will ever deign to be fine _or_ lovely again. Certainly this makes me deserving of hours and hours of scathing, perfectly crafted sarcastic remarks from you – never mind that ninety five percent of this is your fault one way or another! Just . . . spare me."

As soon as I'd said it, I figured it had been rather stupid of me to even attempt to make such a demand. Severus Snape, spare someone a ruthless tongue-lashing when the ammunition is so present that it practically _begs_ for merciless mockery? I might as well have thrown in a request for silky smooth hair and Gilderoy Lockhart's undying affection, too.

Let it just be said here and now that that man must derive all of his joy in life from confusing me horribly to the point where I think my head might fall off, or something equally gruesome. (Er, Snape, not Gilderoy. I sense that if we ever did cross paths, _he_ would understand me perfectly. And perhaps provide me with a few hair care tips.)

"That mirror is not worth even your tears, Auriga," Snape said, all quiet and intense, his eyes piercing into me in this way that made my spine feel all oddly tingly. (In a bad way, of course. Though not quite as bad a way as he made Algernon's spine feel, I'd reckon.) "Whatever it might choose to reflect is of no value to you. No matter how desperately you might wish for your fairytale illusions of perfect love or contrived beauty or whatever equally substantial thing you see—" (really, count on him to be bastardly even when he's being comforting – if that was what he was doing. I'm still rather confused), "—it will not come into existence simply from looking upon it. Desires of the heart are little more than a hindrance. You'll do best to remember that."

And, well, what on earth is someone supposed to reply to that? Yes, granted, it was hardly an "aww, you'll be all right, dearie" coupled with a nice cup of tea, but I'm not sure that Snape actually holds any deep understanding of the concept of comfort in the first place. It seemed almost _nice_ , especially when one considered the fact that up until then, he'd been ignoring me – save a few very vicious sneers every so often – for the past month.

Still, a coherent response seemed a bit beyond me.

"Easy for you to say," I somehow finally managed, but found I had to sink down onto a desk while I did so. The tears coupled with the tingly spine made good posture quite difficult overall. "You don't have to buy Slatero Quirrell a Christmas gift."

He stared at me for a moment, an expression of mild bewilderment making its way onto his face, before the smirk came back and he crossed his arms in front of his chest in a rather infuriatingly smug manner.

"Truly the peril to end all perils," he observed wryly.

"Sod off."

He just went on smirking in a perfectly bastardly manner. I figured that was the end of that and crossed my arms in front of my chest and glared at him, hoping he'd get the hint and leave so I could salvage a few lingering traces of dignity.

But oh no. Of course he couldn't make things that simple. Instead—

"Sibyl Trelawney," he said gravely, and sort of perched onto the desk next to me.

It took me a moment to figure out what on earth he was talking about, but once it dawned on me, I couldn't help letting out a short laugh. It still sounded a bit like a sob – possibly because I was expecting some grand punishment for laughing – but still. It was almost . . . nice, to sit there and envision him attempting to pick out a gauzy purple scarf or bangle bracelets.

Snape wasn't quite smiling, because I have determined this is a complete impossibility unless he is bearing witness to some great display of suffering, but he wasn't smirking or twitching or performing any other erratic movement either. And so I sort of caught his eye and didn't quite smile at him, and there we were, sort of . . . not quite smiling at one another. It was almost peaceful, all silent save for the muffled sounds of Filch scaring the wits out of a few first years for smuggling in snowballs.

"Really, Auriga," Snape chastised, but all softly and almost . . . I will not say 'fondly,' because the very concept makes my brain hurt slightly. Let's just leave it at 'strangely.' "You look like the poor man's Ophelia."

"Oh, like you're one to critique appearances," I retorted, but nevertheless removed my glasses and began attempting to make myself look a bit less like a drowned rat. It seemed like a rather innocent course of action – one that made sense, and would in no way lead to . . .

Except suddenly his hand was reaching out and his thumb was brushing the spot just to the right of my right eye and my poor spine seemed seconds away from dissolving entirely and it was all just very surreal to the point where I'm almost wondering whether I made it up or perhaps he was under the influence of some curse or maybe alcohol because occasionally when there is alcohol involved he tends to accidentally touch me but not so much of his own accord and therefore the whole thing was rather unnatural indeed and this is all one sentence isn't it oh dear I suppose this is rather rebellious grammatically but it's just that it was all very strange and incorrect and defying the rules of everything I have ever come to know much like run-on sentences. Like that.

Well, luckily, we both figured out in approximately a tenth of a second that there was something very, very wrong going on. I sort of reached out and swatted at his hand – defense mechanism – which prompted him to sort of poke me in the eye, which prompted me to cry out and then slap his arm again. Meanwhile, he had somehow managed to break out a scowl, a sneer, and the formidable eye twitch all at once; the three were working in rather horrifying unison, like a synchronized swimming routine from hell.

"What are you _do_ —"

"Get out!"

" _Me_ get out? I was here first! Why—"

"Remove yourself from my presence at once, Sinistra, or I will not be able to be held accountable for my actions—"

"How was that _my_ fault? You're the one who—"

"Took pity on you? You were obviously _desperate_ for some display of compassion; if I hadn't adopted a façade of interest, that Goldstein boy doubtlessly would have fallen prey to your insatiable hunger for male attention—"

"How dare you even _suggest_ that, you great awful son of a—"

"Ha! I knew you were onto somethin', my sweet – ah. Professors!"

And suddenly, there was Filch, standing there clutching Mrs. Norris in that slightly-too-possessive-to-be-appropriate way that lots of faculty members seem to assume where their pets are concerned in this place and staring at us in a way that a man who calls his cat 'my sweet' really shouldn't be able to look at _anyone_ , thank you.

"Argus," Snape swiftly responded, and pushed me – _pushed_ me! – out of the way as he swept over toward Filch. "I was just looking for you."

"'Course that's what you were doin', Professor," Filch said, eyeing me in a highly suspicious manner that really seemed very unnatural. It wasn't as though I was smuggling dungbombs into the castle.

"I would like a word," Snape went on, composed as you please, "concerning the matter we were discussing earlier."

"O'course," Filch said, still staring at me. Mrs. Norris let out a rather demonic mew and glared at me. Where he got that cat, I am not precisely sure, but I can't help suspecting a group of Satanists had something to do with it somewhere along the line.

" _Now_ , if you don't mind," Snape went on, a slight edge to his tone. "I don't have all night."

"Right," Filch said, and kept on staring, freely as you please.

"Good _night_ , Professor Sinistra," Snape said, more than a bit viciously.

"You still expect _me_ to leave?" I demanded.

He responded with a sneer that momentarily prompted me to lose all faith in humanity, goodness, and even Moira K. Mockridge. And so, with as much dignity as I could muster, I left. (But not without "accidentally" stepping on his foot on my way out. He poked me in the _eye_. I feel I was entitled.)

And so here I am.

 _Really_. I just . . . am I supposed to know what to do about this? Wiping tears away tends to be a rather romantic gesture, you know! And yet he managed to make it about as classically chivalrous as leaving up the toilet seat. I'm almost convinced that he just slipped and his thumb chanced to fall on my face.

My eye hurts.

I miss Algernon. He never would have poked me in the eye. Not even after my actions kind of indirectly wound up getting rather brutally attacked by a raging Potions master.

What did I do to deserve any of this, Notebook?

**10:22 P.M.**

_Notebook._

**10:23 P.M.**

Damn it.

**10:24 P.M.**

You know, maybe this isn't a display of weakness in the slightest. Rather, I like to think that . . . you complete me.

Yes.

That'll be it.

**10:25 P.M.**

. . . But not in a Filch-and-Mrs. Norris way.

That would just be disturbing.


	21. Nothing Short of Holly Jolly

** Sunday, December 22, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**5:42 A.M.**

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .

**5:48 A.M.**

Okay. It's all right. I'm fine. It was just a dream. All just a dream.

Even the part where _my mother single-handedly took over Hogwarts_. And had everyone on her side. _Everyone_. Even Trelawney. Even Quirrell's iguana. And we all know that Herman has something going on that isn't quite right! Can you blame him, when he's owned by an _evil person_? Oh God. Oh God oh God. My mother with an evil iguana. And the house-elves! All of them! Well, I'm not quite sure about all of them, because the last thing I saw before I had to wake up lest I otherwise go entirely mad from fear was Wimmy staring at me, his gigantic eyes all wistful and brimming with tears, as he was forced to choose between his people and his one true doomed love.

Not that I'd really particularly care if he didn't choose me, of course. Because he is a house elf. But that isn't the point here! The point is that my mother – my mother, she can _do_ that sort of thing. And isn't it true that dreams can be prophetic? The thing is, this is very much unlike other kinds of dreams. You know, like that dream with Snape and the neck-kissing. That's the sort of dream that is very clearly just a dream (er, that approaches on nightmarish, of course) because it's got that hazy surreal feel about it and your senses all become oddly heightened until the littlest graze of flesh against flesh is enough to make you feel like every single part of your body is composed entirely of little sparks that exist solely to drive you mad with precisely how aware you are that unless you want to go completely out of your mind you really quite need to be much, much closer to—

Well, you know.

Those kinds of dreams. That are . . . dreamy.

And . . .

Bad.

Disturbing.

Alarmingly vivid.

It's that sort of thing that scars you for life, you know.

What with the . . . lips, and . . .

**5:50 A.M.**

What was my point again?

**5:51 A.M.**

Ah! Right!

It wasn't a dream like that.

With my mother, you see, it could happen. She could make it happen. She could turn every single aspect of my already not-precisely-enchanting life against me, even my dearly devoted house elf. Don't think she couldn't, or that I'm exaggerating because she fills me with unnatural levels of bitterness, or anything of the like! Because Notebook, truly, you know _nothing_. Did _you_ grow up with her? I think not! Why, I bet she could turn even you against me! And you, as I am perfectly aware of (um, honestly), are an inanimate object!

She just has that kind of power.

And she's coming here.

**5:53 A.M.**

Well, this is sure to be nothing short of holly jolly.

**Teacher's Lounge**

**9:15 A.M.**

All right, I'm here. I'm ready. I've got my coffee mug and I am entirely prepared to approach this particular problem in a calm and logical manner.

Because, really, how hard can it possibly be to pick out an ideal Christmas gift for Slatero Quirrell?

So he's evil. I refuse to let that detain me! After all, I've dealt with Snape for years, and he is far more utterly, maddeningly unpleasant than some measly You-Know-Who minion! I bet I could come up with the perfect Christmas gift for Severus Snape in about half a second!

Um, not because I fancy myself a Snape expert, or anything. Not because I pay any sort of unnatural amount of attention to him. Just because . . .

But is this really even the time to be talking about Snape? I think not!

This is all about Quirrell.

So.

Here we go, then.

 **POTENTIAL GIFT** **IDEAS FOR SLATERO QUIRRELL**

-A new turban

Well, honestly, the old one _does_ seem a bit worse for wear. It never looks precisely _sharp_ , you know, and perhaps it'd help him out quite a bit with that stutter and inability to look anyone in the face if he were a bit more confident about his appearance! Besides, it always smells a bit . . . off. And I'm not one to judge – although to my knowledge I don't _smell_ – but it's always just a little unpleasant when one winds up sitting next to him at meals or staff meetings or the like. It makes it especially hard to focus on whatever tedious thing McGonagall is saying. So maybe if he just scrapped the old turban, then . . .

. . . Of course, there's the troublesome little part where he's evil. I'd kind of forgotten about that. And, honestly, if he's able to tap into a bit of self-confidence, it would more likely than not just make him feel _more_ diabolical, and then he'd probably start killing first years and feeding them to Herman just because he could.

Besides, I haven't the slightest idea where one would find a turban.

Next!

-A hat

Well, turbans _are_ a bit passé.

But I don't want to offend him. He does seem rather fragile.

You know, for an evil person.

-That new Flourish & Blotts bestseller about the history of the dark arts

. . .Oh, right, Auriga. Because it would be _ever_ so clever of you to provide him with a veritable fountain of evil inspiration.

Next.

-Socks

Shut up. Stop looking at me like that. It's worked out quite well in the past, for your information! A few years ago, I got Dumbledore's name, and – well, what do you get for _Dumbledore_? I figured I should attempt to find some really intellectual book worthy of his genius, and such, but it turns out that's a fairly daunting task. Instead, I finally settled on some Muggle chocolate bars and a nice pair of wool socks, and wouldn't you know, he was _thrilled_. So there. Socks can be quite an effective gift.

Except, well, it seems a bit maternal in this instance, doesn't it? Like I'm mollycoddling him? It almost seems _too_ innocent. Why would one get a grown man who wasn't Albus Dumbledore socks? It'll be glaringly obvious – I'll be trying so hard to treat him like he's _not_ the Dark Lord's faithful servant that my "oh, of course you're perfectly innocent!" approach will tip him off at once that I've been onto him for sometime! And I'm not like Snape, you know. I can't just glare at people and immediately have them groveling in submission. In fact, I'm rather vulnerable! He'd kill me before the wrapping paper hit the floor!

But I'm all right. Just because my trusty fallback gift has failed me is certainly no cause for concern.

Um.

I . . .

**9:29 A.M.**

Aack! Oh, dear Lord, I've got to tread carefully now.

Quirrell, fittingly enough, just came in and asked me if the coffee was fresh. (Well, not in so few words, of course. Or at least syllables. By the time he got the message out, I had practically passed out.)

I don't know. Something about the way he was staring at me just suspected that he _knew_ something. That he suspected.

And, all right, I suppose this could technically be attributed to the fact that when I looked up at him I kind of yelped slightly, slammed my notebook closed with all the force I could muster, and then elbowed my coffee mug off the table for good measure.

But still. There was something in his eyes – some dark glint that couldn't solely be attributed to caffeine deprivation. That man is onto me. He knows something.

This gift has to be perfect.

It's becoming grave. A matter of life or death.

I believe it's time to take desperate measures.

**10:11 A.M.**

Sweet stars. You'd think that going to Diagon Alley with me is something akin to a death sentence. Can you believe that the only way I could get him to agree with it was reminding him, quite pointedly, that I am a woman and therefore probably far more equipped to pick out a gift for Trelawney?

And still he had the nerve to have a downright field day with the whole me-being-a-woman proclamation.

Bastard.

**The Leaky Cauldron**

**4:14 P.M.**

Hah! Victory is mine!

Of course, I'd probably be feeling much more victorious if I hadn't just been forced to spend several hours with Snape. I somehow suspect he harbors similar feelings, considering he's currently at the bar ordering liberal amounts of firewhisky. Because I am not an idiot, I just requested a butterbeer. I know what happens when Snape, alcohol, and I all put in some quality time together, and let me tell you, Notebook, it's not pretty!

Honestly.

It's a good thing that he's always acted, with steadfast devotion, as though that Yule Ball punch incident never happened. Otherwise, I don't know what would have happened.

Something unendurable, to be sure.

Yes.

And bad.

As unendurable things tend to be.

But anyway. It's not as though any of that matters anymore. Or ever did.

So, yes, Quirrell! After three and a half hours of searching, during which time Snape contemplated killing me at least sixty-seven times (it has reached the point where I can see it in his eyes), I finally triumphed at the Magical Menagerie. It was actually completely unintentional; I was just feeling a bit morose about how Quirrell was sure to kill me because the perfect Christmas gift clearly did not exist, and Snape was feeling a bit murderous because we'd managed to find Trelawney's gift (a very pretty purple scarf with little moon and star embroidery which he sneered at with flourish and actually refused to touch until it was in the bag) in about fifteen minutes. He finally stormed off to the apothecary without much explanation beyond a sneer and an eye twitch when I began describing all of the things I'd always rather wanted to do before I died.

(I suppose revealing my desire to have some sort of romantic encounter with Gilderoy Lockhart was faintly foolish, but by that time I felt rather dazed and wasn't quite paying attention to distinguishing between what just flitted through my mind and what actually came out of my mouth.)

So after I'd been rather heartlessly abandoned in favour of newt's eyes, I found myself wandering on over to the Magical Menagerie. I figured that looking at kittens might at least be able to slightly ease the pain of my certain impending doom, even though I've always been more of a dog person. In times of such desperation, I know well enough to take what I can get.

I spent a bit of time rather morosely looking at kittens and thinking about how I'd always rather wanted to get a cat and now certainly wouldn't be able to – that is, until one scratched me and my thoughts rather transitioned to something along the lines of how I'd never particularly liked cats anyway.

While I was shooting a rather offended glare the kittens' way, a display of rather stylish collars caught my eye. They had everything from a rather intimidating spike collar to one covered entirely in very classy-looking rhinestones, and then, quite all at once, it hit me.

Herman.

Poor, poor Herman, with his pink collar.

I mean, admittedly, he's not precisely my favourite creature in the world. In fact, I still kind of feel kind of compelled to shudder every time he crosses my mind. But the point is, Quirrell seems to like him. Quirrell seems to like him in the manner that Filch likes Mrs. Norris, in fact, but I don't precisely want to go there.

What matters is that every single collar, even the frightful spiked one, suddenly seemed to sparkle with the possibility of my salvation. I figured that it would seem a rather sensitive gesture indeed, to show that I knew enough about him to understand how much his faithful reptile meant to him. And what's more, I would be doing Herman quite the favor as well. You know, perhaps his . . . slightly aggressive sexual behaviour can all be attributed to the fact that that pink collar is such a blow to his masculinity. Maybe, with a nice handsome leather one or something of the like, he'd feel less pressure to . . . prove himself.

And, well, needless to say, Notebook, that was enough to sell the idea to me. I picked out the most gentlemanly non-spiked collar I could find – brown leather, and not the slightest bit feminine – and bought it right away, overcome with a very pleasant sense of mingled relief and victory. (And, all right, also a sense that I'd gone a few galleons over the spending limit, but after what I'd been through, that hardly seemed important.)

So, in conclusion, Notebook, it looks as though I'm not going to die after all!

In fact, everything would be something approaching utterly wonderful if it weren't for . . .

**4:24 P.M.**

My mother. Oh, God, my mother. Somehow I'd managed to forget for a few glorious hours, but now it's all just come rushing back.

So, really, my thoughtful and sensitive gift for Herman won't matter in the slightest, because she'll seduce him over to the side of darkness anyhow!

That is, after she's managed to fully criticize every aspect of my life. Because, let's face it, Notebook, I don't really have a lot going on for me. At least before there was Algernon, but . . .

**4:25 P.M.**

Algernon.

Whom she thinks I am still dating.

And, well, I can't very well explain to her that we had to split up over a pesky little _near-death experience_. She would never let me live it down. _Never_. It'd be worse than the forty-seven minute lecture I got concerning how to keep a man's attention after I moved back home when Paul dumped me for that wretched secretary. (Barmaid? Knowing him, probably both.)

Oh dear.

He's . . . out of town. Yes, that's it. Out of town. He's a busy man, after all. One can't expect him to stop his entire corporation simply because of a little thing like Christmas! What is he, Tiny Tim?

. . . Of course, then she'll just reach the conclusion that he doesn't exist.

Good God, I'm doomed. _Doomed_. What am I supposed to do? I somehow doubt owling Algernon and politely requesting that he meet my mother will do the trick. I suppose I could just beg the next man who walked by to pretend to be my boyfriend for a few days.

Hah.

**4:44 P.M.**

GAH.

Some people have no Christmas spirit, Notebook. Believe you me.

It's not as though it would be so _terribly_ hard. And it's not as though he doesn't owe me, because I'm completely sure he does! After all, no one puts up with him nearly as well as I do. The fact that he's an utterly detestable and soulless bastard doesn't stop me from interacting with him on a regular basis! In fact, he's damned _lucky_ to have me!

But does he recognize that?

Oh no.

Honestly.

And it's not as though I made it sound as though it was some great and terrible endeavor, either! Hardly! When he came back with the drinks and immediately began downing the firewhisky at a downright unhealthy speed, I took a few sips of butterbeer and then very casually said, "Hey, d'you think perhaps you'd be able to pretend to be Algernon for a few days while my mother's visiting?"

Hah. I don't know why I bother.

He didn't even _say_ anything! Just stopped drinking and sort of stared at me for a very prolonged amount of time before taking a rather violent sip.

Which is a perfectly childish way to behave, if you ask me.

Well, except for the whole alcohol aspect.

"It wouldn't be that hard," I went on, because I am stupid. "You'd just have to act as though you were a gentleman who adored me."

As soon as I actually heard it out loud, I realized that it would, in fact, be immeasurably hard.

Snape, meanwhile, was now staring at the ceiling whilst bearing that charming and all-too-familiar 'someone please do deign to grant me the ability to resist killing her' expression.

"Never mind," I grumbled, and took a very irritated swig of butterbeer which immediately left me wishing I'd gone for a bit of an edgier beverage.

"Dare I suspect," he began after a moment, something in his tone making me wish very much for a coffee mug, "that this means you haven't informed your mother about your unfortunate little . . . lover's quarrel? How very peculiar, Auriga," he threw in, smirking slightly. "You, who seem so very keen to inform everyone of every distressing aspect of your tormented existence."

"Shove off."

Hah. I might as well have instructed him to adopt Harry Potter.

"What could prompt you to conceal such a – forgive me – _juicy_ tidbit from someone so very close to you?" he went on, the very picture of idle curiosity. For a moment, I found myself wishing I had purchased the spiked collar instead. It seemed undeniably more useful.

"Oh, how I'd love to kill you," I muttered darkly, figuring any actual response I attempted to craft would just be used against me anyway.

He arched an eyebrow. "Aren't we touchy?"

"Are you ever _not_ unpleasant?" I inquired, rather uselessly.

"I wouldn't worry, Auriga," Snape went on, apparently not in the slightest bit unnerved by the fact that I'm sure I was sporting quite a homicidal glint in my eye by that time. "After all, when one is gifted with the grace and charm with which you are so generously endowed, their power is virtually limitless. Why, I'm certain that if you asked very nicely, your feminine wiles would be enough by far to cause the very man himself to fall right back into your arms."

That Godawful smirk grew even more pronounced as he stood and said, "Now, if you don't mind, I've a bit of business to tend to that doesn't involve the purchasing of flowy scarves and animal apparel."

So here I am, then: all by myself, fuming, and doomed.

I hate that man.

I hate all men.

Really, they're just a fantastic waste of time. So what if I don't have a boyfriend? Mum can just deal with that. I mean, granted, my dad tends to be far more tolerable than the others I've met, but he still never wears matching socks to formal occasions, and goes mysteriously deaf whenever she talks about him accomplishing any kind of housework, and forgets their anniversary with something approaching steadfast devotion.

So really, why the hell should I have to impress _her_?

 _She_ should be envying _me_.

So there.

Case closed.

**4:49 P.M.**

I wonder how many years older Christopher might look with a fake moustache.


	22. A Partner in Crime

** Monday, December 23, 1991 **

**Great Hall**

**8:40 A.M.**

She's not here. Not yet, anyway.

Of course, that doesn't appear to matter in the slightest.

All around me, everyone is _talking_ about her.

McGonagall's all smiles at the thought of her coming, which is just disturbing. She had my mum in her first years of teaching, and apparently she's still one of the best students she's ever had. Hmph.

And then, of course, Flitwick had to bring up that she'd come this close to actually teaching here before she'd been forced to decline on account of that little Minister of Magic invitation.

"Her Arithmancy skills were truly exceptional," he squeaked, all merry and tiny and donning a Santa hat to get into the Christmas swing of things. Honestly. If he thinks I'm not willing to hurt him just because he's small and kind, then he's got another thing coming. Where my mother is concerned, I cannot be held accountable for my actions. "Victoria's a blessing, of course, but Lucinda was unparalleled. Can you imagine that, eh, Auriga – teaching alongside your mother?"

Before I could quite stop myself, I was baring my teeth at him rather viciously. Luckily, I think he thought it was a smile. At least I was able to stop myself before any growling made an appearance.

So, yes. She's due to arrive at ten, and I am savoring my last moments of sanity. Unfortunately, they are being slightly jeopardized by the fact that Christopher, for whatever reason, has chosen to remain here over the holidays, and keeps staring at me.

Rather heartless conduct, really, to stay at school while your mother is apparently wasting away from some tragic and mysterious disease.

Hah! I knew he was lying. The little cad.

. . . Unless, of course, his mother is anything like mine.

Then I suppose I can't blame him for staying as far away as possible. I don't even want to imagine my mother with a tragic and mysterious disease. She'd probably lounge around on satin sheets all the time, wearing flowy white peignoirs and sighing tragically all the time. "Camille had nothing on me, darling! Oh, the injustice of it all. Sigh!"

Ugh.

I can't handle this.

I need to get out of here.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:38 A.M.**

Oh my . . . I'm just . . . well, I'm not precisely sure how to accept this, or what exactly to say.

Other than that I have the sneaking suspicion that Prince Charming may in fact actually exist, and it was very, very stupid of me to let him get pushed off a tower.

Ohhh, my heart's still a bit fluttery. I have to compose myself. He's waiting for me right now in the teacher's lounge, and God only knows what could happen in there.

So, after deciding that staying at the breakfast table would drive me to swift and murderous madness, I proclaimed as pleasantly as I could to everyone that I needed a walk and fled outside. I've never exactly been one for fresh air, on account of it being so cold at this time of year, but I was rather overcome with the need to do something drastic.

Except then it just so happens that virtually as soon as I stepped outside, who should be coming up the walkway but Algernon.

Honestly, for a moment I thought I had gone off the deep end and slipped right into fantasy land, and in this lovely place in my head he was coming to save me from my mother and all would be all right except for the part where they'd have to lock me up in a padded room because I was completely far gone.

The fact that he spotted me and promptly stopped walking with a bit of a strange expression on his face, though, made the whole fantasy thing fall a bit flat, as I'd been expecting him to come all the way up, take me into his arms, and kiss me like there was no tomorrow.

Instead, he just sort of stared for a moment before going, quite faintly, "Auriga."

"Oh," I said, because my social skills are helplessly limited and that was about the most charming reply I could craft at the time. "Hello there."

"Hello," he said, rather strangely.

And then we just sort of stared at one another for awhile, the snow falling down around us and the air going all heavy with things unsaid (or, okay, probably just rather extreme levels of awkwardness); it was all quite cinematic and surreal, really, to the point where I was utterly at a loss regarding what to do.

After about twenty seconds, though, it had gotten so unbearable that I finally said the first thing that came to mind.

Unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind happened to be, "Um, I don't suppose you've come here to save me from my mother's everlasting disapproval, have you?"

Really, I haven't the faintest clue as to why he might have been interested in me in the first place. Even when I'm trying to pretend to be sophisticated and charming, I can't be all that much of a catch. My essence is too undeniably flawed.

Instead of continuing to stare in bewilderment, though, he was nice enough to smile slightly and reply, "Actually, no. I've just come to pay my best to Albus. Season's greetings, you know."

"Ah," I said, and, despite myself, couldn't quite shake the disappointment from my tone. "Right."

My presence, surprisingly enough, didn't seem to be enough to drive him away: he continued walking until he was up the steps and standing next to me, all up-close and handsome and rather depressingly perfect.

"Now, what's this about your mother?" he asked, perfectly friendly.

"Oh," I said, and laughed a little in an attempt to buy myself time to find a way to explain it that would appear remotely sane. "Well, she's coming to visit – in about two hours, actually, and . . . er, she's a bit difficult."

"Lucinda Sinistra?" he asked.

I nodded rather glumly. "How'd you know?"

"My mother knows her," he responded. "I believe they're both part of one of those high society witches' organizations. Organizing tea parties, commemorating witch burnings and all that."

"Ah, yes," I said, and couldn't help wrinkling my nose. "I've listened to her rambling quite extensively about planning society functions more than once."

"I actually went to one of them," he responded, his expression conveying very well just how much he valued that particular memory. "At which I believe I actually met your mother."

Which gave me the faintest bit of hope, right then and there. "And . . .?"

"A quite thoroughly terrifying woman," he determined, and grinned good-naturedly at me.

I couldn't help laughing out loud at that one, more out of relief than anything else. Because, well, the very opportunity seemed as though it had been handed directly to me from a bunch of bright and smiling angels, really – his showing up, and being all kind and gallant and perfect, at that . . .

But at the same time, it was a bit iffy to suspect he didn't harbor any hard feelings whatsoever about the slight . . . spine incident.

"And she's coming here?" he asked, shaking me out of my reverie.

"Yes," I confirmed rather glumly. "A lovely little Christmas gift from hell."

"My sincerest apologies," he said, and his eyes were all bright and sort of sparkling in amusement and before I knew what I was doing, it was happening.

"Can you pretend to be in love with me for an hour or so?"

Not exactly the ease-into-it approach I had originally intended.

He sort of froze and stared at me, and then came the desperate flood of rather sloppy attempts at explanation.

"You see, I sort of wrote to her while we were dating and told her about you because – well, because you were really wonderful, _so_ wonderful, and I suppose I sort of wanted her to see that just because I'm unmarried and sort of a miserable mess, that didn't mean my life couldn't be wonderful sometimes, and so I told her but then after . . . well, after everything, I sort of never got around to telling her that we'd . . . you know," I finished, rather hopelessly, "that things weren't so wonderful anymore."

His expression was rather indecipherable, so I just kept on going.

"And, well, now she thinks she's going to meet you," I said weakly. "Because I guess if we were dating we might be spending Christmas together, and, well, so she just . . . thought you'd be here. Which you are," I added rather uselessly.

And the staring just kept on coming. After it had gone on for approximately seven seconds, I found that I couldn't take it anymore and forced myself to give up all hope.

"God, I'm sorry," I said, all the while trying to convince myself that bursting into disappointed tears really wouldn't be the way to go about this. "I have no right to ask anything of you after everything that happened, and I should just be able to face her and tell her that we're just not—"

"I believe I can manage it."

And now it was my turn to stare.

". . . What?"

"I have an appointment this afternoon in France, but I'm quite sure I can spare an hour or so."

I sort of just kept on staring, only now it was in a rather horribly unfortunate way where my eyes were filling with tears and I wanted nothing more than to throw my arms around him and then perhaps build a shrine or two and spend the rest of my days devotedly worshipping the man.

"Really?" I asked, my voice sort of breaking on the word.

He smiled slightly. "Consider it a Christmas gift of sorts."

And then, rather stupidly, I sort of choked out, "But I haven't got anything for you!"

"Perfectly all right," he murmured rather reassuringly, and had just taken my hands comfortingly in his when—

"Really, Auriga, if you've drawn the conclusion that freezing yourself to death is a practical solution to all of your problems—"

I am now quite positive I know exactly how Lizzie Bennet felt when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham first caught sight of each other. Not that Algernon is any sort of Mr. Wickham, of course, because he is doubtlessly the most perfect man I've ever met, and certainly not hiding any sort of dark and detestable secrets.

. . . And not that Snape is my Mr. Darcy.

Of course not.

Needless to say.

But anyhow, there he was, pushing open the door and looking irritated, and all of a sudden he fell silent and his eyes just got incredibly dark as he took in the sight of us. I pulled my hands out of Algernon's at once, all overcome with the ridiculous feeling that I'd been caught at something utterly unforgivable. I mean, it's one thing if you are caught making out on your parents' bed by your father (dreadful as my mother might have been after he dumped me, Paul really was not a huge hit with either of my parents) but quite another if someone you hate and have no involvement with whatsoever just so happens to see you sharing a nice moment with a _friend_.

And yet, for God knows what reason, I found myself sort of stammering out, "Severus—"

(Where the first name came from, I haven't the slightest.)

But there was no stopping him: he fixed us with a sneer so disgusted that all of the others I've witnessed suddenly seemed to pale in comparison and slammed the door shut again.

It was horribly silent for a moment, and then I finally worked up the courage to actually look at Algernon. He wasn't smiling anymore; instead, just staring and looking sort of displeased.

I figured that was the end of everything, and sort of just mumbled out, "If you want to leave, that's completely fi—"

He cut me off, though, with a slightly forced smile and rather decisive intake of breath. "And miss seeing your lovely mother again? Not for the world."

And so, rather stunned, he and I went inside and he went off to find Dumbledore with the promise that he'd meet me in the teacher's lounge at ten, and here I am.

Goodness.

I suppose I should actually freshen up before my mother gets here. Attempt to brave the eye makeup, or something of the like. Of course, I think if I so much as touched eyeliner, I'd just wind up with a load of black lines straggling down my face.

I just . . .

This is all very strange.

And oddly wonderful.

And I need to shake this urge that I ought to apologize to Snape, or something mad like that. Because, honestly, _for what_? He's the one who ruined our relationship, thank you very much! If he were any sort of human being, he'd be damned thankful that Algernon doesn't hate me entirely, lest the guilt otherwise drive him mad!

But no. Of course not.

It would be one thing if he _was_ my Mr. Darcy. You know – sort of perfect and very necessary in his own maddening way, underneath all of the sarcasm and the emotional distance and the general unpleasantness.

But he's not.

Because . . .

Well, _obviously_ because . . .

Um . . .

I have to go.

Wouldn't want to keep Algernon waiting, and everything.

 **Astronomy** **Tower**

**5:52 P.M.**

HAH! Take _that_ , Mummy Dearest!

Er.

Sorry.

It's just that I've found myself rather overwhelmed with the urge to do that for quite a few hours now, and have finally got the opportunity. Mum's freshening up before dinner, and as she's already _completely_ taken over my bedroom quarters – really, I hadn't expected anything less – I decided I might as well hide up here for a bit of peace and quiet.

I just . . . _hah_! I haven't felt nearly this competent where she's concerned in years.

Hah! Hah! Hah!

. . . I'm done now.

Promise.

She showed up precisely at ten, which was, of course, to be expected, and looked utterly impeccable – which was, of course, to be expected. I still really think it's terribly unfair that Lyra wound up virtually a carbon copy of her, whereas I'm a bit like what you'd get if my mother looked at herself in a funhouse mirror. But, yes. Her flawlessly silky smooth auburn hair was put up into a perfect French twist, and she looked the rather maddeningly perfect sophisticate in a cream-coloured dress suit. Of course, the second she got here she started fretting about how she felt so horribly out of place in Muggle clothing instead of robes. (Never mind that I was in slacks and a sweater – apparently, she immediately wrote me off as the Hogwarts pariah.) Then, naturally, practically the whole staff rushed to assure her of how perfect she looked, and, oh, I can tell it would have all been downhill from there if Algernon hadn't been around.

But, yes, he was standing there, looking all charming and perfect; while Mum was gushing to McGonagall about how lovely it was to be back, he threw a wink my way that got me all inconveniently fluttery again.

I'll admit to you, Notebook, that I was still a bit skeptical about the whole thing. Not about Algernon himself, precisely, because he is perfect, but about the fact that if anything felt even remotely amiss, my mother would pick up on it in about half a second. She's eerie in that way. (Among countless other ways, of course.)

Algernon, however, just so happened to succeed in going above and beyond perfect.

After she was satisfied that she'd charmed every one of my colleagues, Mum came over and air-kissed both my cheeks before pulling away and entering the obligatory scrutinize-Auriga's-appearance-entirely phase. I've reached the point where I know better than to try to escape this, but it was still a bit embarrassing; after all, it's not as though I'm thirteen anymore. (Although admittedly there haven't been many significant physical changes since then.)

"Auriga," she sort of murmured under her breath; her eyes lingered on my hair for a moment before she inhaled rather composedly and then wisely chose to focus her attention elsewhere. "You're so _petite_."

Hmph. Easy for her to say. Apparently, it is rather hard for her to contemplate not having the exact build of a fashion model.

"Yes, Mum," I said, staring dutifully up at her. "There's really not much one can do about that."

"You could try wearing heels," she said, which was promptly followed by a rather perfect frown creasing her features. "Although I suppose that does require a certain natural grace."

"Mum—"

"And those terrible glasses. You know that they've developed spells for that—"

"Mum—"

"—Although I suppose they hide those circles under your eyes. Have you been sleeping at all?"

" _Mum_ —"

"Do you know, I read that—"

Algernon, mercifully, rather pointedly cleared his throat at that moment, and my mother trailed off as her gaze shifted to him.

Her eyes widened slightly, but other than that, there was no notable change in disposition. My mother is rather above actual blatant displays of emotion.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," she said, a smile playing around the corners of her perfectly lipsticked mouth.

"Mum," I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, "this is Algernon."

"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Sinistra," he said; she offered her hand to be kissed (honestly!) and he gallantly obliged.

"Indeed," she said, still managing a perfect high society smile that – I could tell – was accompanied by the faintest trace of unadulterated awe. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for quite sometime. Auriga has quite a lot to say about you," she threw in, casting a glance tinged with suspicion my way.

"Does she?" Algernon asked, entirely undaunted. "I hope it hasn't made a terrible impression." He smiled, the very picture of charm, and slid an arm easily around my waist.

"On the contrary, it was all rather flattering," my mother responded with a widening smile of her own. "And I can certainly see why."

Honestly, Notebook, it was something akin to freakish – like being in the middle of a charm battle, or something of the like. And seeing as how charm is hardly my strong suit, all I could really manage to do was stand and sort of stare back and forth between them while the witty banter flew.

"I suspect she brings out the best in me," Algernon pronounced, kissing my temple. By that time, it all felt nothing short of spooky – like I'd accidentally stepped into the ideal life. "If you don't mind my saying so, you've been blessed with quite the wonderful daughter."

"There's no one quite like her," my mother responded pleasantly. (Hmph. Thanks, Mum.) "Will you be spending Christmas here?"

"Unfortunately, I have a business engagement in France this afternoon that may last for sometime," Algernon replied smoothly. "I've tried to get out of it, but it seems dead set on being inevitable."

"Working through Christmas!" Mum commented, the very picture of sympathetic horror. "How abominable."

"Yes, well," Algernon said, and stared down at me so fondly that I went rather lightheaded, "It's not so bad when you know you've got something to look forward to."

And, really, it just went on like that for the next few hours; Mum kept firing all these witty, charming comments at Algernon, and he kept responding utterly perfectly. The man never faltered once. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone interact with my mother quite so successfully. There's even a point where my dad tends to give up where she's concerned.

By the time he actually had to leave, I found myself feeling leaps and bounds better about the entire ordeal. Mum hadn't offered me nearly as many maddening critiques as she usually manages to come up with after not having seen me for months, and I still can't help suspecting that the notion that someone charming actually _likes_ me might have been enough to put her in her place. (In which case it is probably a very, very good thing that Snape didn't show any trace of gallantry in my moment of desperation, because there's no way he would have been able to impress her in the slightest.)

Anyhow, I walked Algernon back out to the front doors, and I'm still not precisely sure what to think about the exchange we had there. I mean, I'm such a terrible mess that I'm sure there's no chance of things ever just being _okay_ again, and his behaviour today was doubtlessly just further proof that he's a complete gentleman, and yet . . .

Well, once we reached the front doors, I wasted no time at all in saying, "Thank you so much for doing this. I'm quite positive I would have gone utterly insane otherwise."

"It was my pleasure," he said, smiling slightly. "I haven't had a conversation that reminiscent of combat in quite sometime."

I laughed and then we just sort of looked at one another for a moment, and this wave of terrible regret just washed over me, and almost before I knew it, I was saying, "I'm so sorry about what happened. With . . . with Snape, and that awful fight, and me lying to you about all those stupid things. I'm just . . . sorry."

He looked at me, and although it was completely unfounded, of course, something in his expression almost made me think that perhaps he felt as bad as I did. Finally, he replied, very quietly, "I know."

Which was, of course, a bit of a Han Solo rip-off, but he's so wonderful and he did so much for me today, and who even knows he has any familiarity with Muggle films whatsoever? Anyhow, I figured I was kind enough to let it pass. In fact, I could even rather identify with Princess Leia, because it was honestly just rather perfect.

Really, who knows what would have happened if the Weasley twins hadn't picked that precise moment to burst inside hurling snowballs at one another?

But as it was, one flew right into Algernon's shoulder and another into the back of my head (honestly, I am almost used to this kind of treatment by now), and that was enough to effectively shatter whatever sort of meaningful moment we might have been engaging in. And so we wished each other a happy Christmas and he kissed my cheek, and then he was gone.

**6:02 P.M.**

Sigh.

**6:05 P.M.**

Anyway!

Things have been quite uneventful since. Mum filled me in on what Dad and Lyra are up to, and looked around my room with an expression of vague yet elegant distaste for about fifteen minutes before wasting no time in making herself utterly at home, and now she is apparently working to better her already flawless appearance.

I suppose I ought to head down to dinner.

Do you know, Notebook, I think I just might be able to survive this visit.

 **Astronomy** **Tower**

**8:25 P.M.**

DAMN IT.

Just . . .

Well, thank you. Thank you, Severus Snape, for once again managing to tear everything to shreds. I really, truly appreciate it. You do so light up my life, you _soulless detestable bastard_.

Things were going perfectly, Notebook! You know! I told you! For once, _for once_ , everything was flawless! My mother's presence was not going to fill me with the overwhelming urge to drive my head repeatedly into a brick wall! Everything was going so well that I actually got rather _rescued_ by Prince Charming! These are not the sorts of occurrences that pop up all too frequently in my life, you know!

But then there was Snape. Of course there was Snape. Of course things couldn't just stay . . .

Aaaugh.

And it could have been so easily avoided, as well! If I'd just waited five more minutes to come downstairs, or if he'd taken another route . . .

But nooo. Of course not.

Instead, we just so happened to bump into one another on our way to the Great Hall. (Yes, literally. Is there really any other way it could have happened, considering my good fortune?) Now, I wasn't precisely sure how I was supposed to approach him, because I still felt a bit awkward about whatever the hell it was that had gone on outside when Algernon first arrived. Never mind that the last time we'd had any sort of extensive interaction, it had been him abandoning me in The Leaky Cauldron after making a mockery of my very existence. Again.

I finally chose to take the approach that felt the most natural.

"You know, for someone who swoops around all intimidatingly all the time, you're surprisingly graceless," I informed him rather crossly while attempting to regain my footing.

You know, in retrospect, I had been almost kind with that one; I had entirely set myself up! I mean, 'graceless'? I almost might as well have said to him, "Guess what? I lust after iguanas and underage students!" He could have had nearly as much of a field day with this.

But no.

Instead, he just sort of sneered at me for a moment and then kept walking.

And, well, I don't know precisely why, but I couldn't help being rather offended by that. What gives him the right to just walk off after I've clearly initiated a bickering session? Nothing, that's what! It felt downright unnatural – as though he'd contradicted the very foundation of the universe, or something.

"That's hardly the way to treat a lady," I ventured, making it even easier that time. A lady? Well, he would certainly be glad to keep that in mind the next time he came across one; wasn't it fortunate that this time it was nothing more than a swiveling twit and therefore he needn't worry?

(Never mind that I am now able to craft his replies entirely on my own. This means nothing.)

He just kept on walking a few steps ahead of me, as though I wasn't even there. And, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Guess what?" I asked, and tugged on his sleeve just to make extra sure I would come off an utterly un-ignore-able force of nature. "I lust after iguanas and underage students!"

Which was like a Christmas gift in itself, really, but of course he didn't appreciate it in the slightest.

"Do you _want_ something, Sinistra?" he sort of snarled over his shoulder, and just kept on walking in a way that was actually more like striding, and could only be kept up with by an activity approaching running on my part.

"You're ignoring me," I accused, speeding after him.

"It surprises you that I choose to spare myself the tedium of your inane proclamations?" he threw over his shoulder.

"Yes!" I practically shouted, without really bothering to think about what this might actually suggest.

"Why?" he snapped.

"Because," I swiftly discovered that coming up with any kind of profound answer was thoroughly beyond me at the moment, on account of the fact that most of my attention was consumed by keeping up with the insane bastard. "Well, because you're supposed to listen to me!"

"Oh really? And what binds me to such a fate?"

"Because that's just how it _works_!" I informed him, irritated, and miraculously made my way down a flight of stairs moving about three times as fast as I usually bothered to. "I say things and then you're a complete heartless bastard about them!"

"A service which I believe I've chosen to give up."

"Well, you can't!"

"Why not?" Snape demanded icily, a couple of first years diving out of his way as he swept around a corner.

I shot an apologetic glance at them, but couldn't bring myself to actually stop and check on them properly. "Because that's how we work!"

"'We'?" he repeated, tone drenched in disgust. "How very sentimental."

"Would you stop being such a—"

"Alas, I fear the twisted attachment you seem to harbor to me is unrequited," he went on coldly.

"Oh, please!" I was shouting despite myself. One of the suits of armor lining the walls cowered as we sped by. "You _need_ me!"

"That's ludicrous."

"You do!"

"What possible reason would drive me to sink so low, Sinistra?" he turned another corner with ease; my shoulder slammed against the wall, but I was far too pissed off to actually register the rather considerable amount of pain.

"Well – Quirrell, take Quirrell!" In retrospect, it was probably incredibly unintelligent to be yelling this. "I'm the only other person who knows!"

Strangely enough, Snape didn't even seem to notice. Instead, he simply snarled, "Ah, yes, your ridiculous paranoid obsession with a man who can't even pronounce his own name truly binds us 'till the ends of eternity! How could I have been so blind?"

"You can't just handle a thing like that alone, you know! You need me there!"

"Need what, precisely? Do make this clear for me. Your ceaseless psychotic ramblings, perhaps? Your delusions of gloriously triumphing over evil side by side? You are nothing but a hindrance, you foolish woman—"

" _Why_ won't you tell Dumbledore, then? You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're doing something about it! As long as I know this is going on, I'm _not_ just going to sit back and let him off The Boy Who Lived—"

"As if _you_ could do anything to stop it—"

"You think I couldn't?"

"I would go so far as to know you couldn't; your uselessness is unparalleled!"

"You're just afraid!" Honestly, I don't precisely know where that came from, but at the same time, saying it felt so strangely correct that I just let myself keep on going, although the Great Hall doors had come into sight and our voices would no doubt be overheard. "You're miserable because no one's ever liked you and you hide behind some great solitary façade just so no one will see what an embittered, lonely coward you are!"

"You have no right—"

"All your dark, shameful past actions – all of that was probably just some twisted attempt to _belong_ —"

"Don't you _dare_ talk about things you could not even begin to understand, you ignorant—"

"I understand you a hell of a lot more than you'd like to think, you son of a bi—"

We had arrived at the doors by then, and coincidentally (ha), so had Christopher, who stepped in between us and cut me off with a rather pleasantly oblivious, "Oh, look, Professors – mistletoe!"

And without even bothering to glance upward, Snape shoved Christopher out of the way, pulled me to him in one jarringly swift movement, and rather violently pushed his mouth against mine.

**8:39 P.M.**

I don't know what to say.

I just don't.

And so, Notebook, tell you what. We're just not going to talk about it.

Not at all.

We're not going to talk about what it was like, or the way I was quite sure I would die because one's heart cannot possibly beat that fast without a rather inconvenient death side effect, or the way it was far more vivid than that last unfortunate kissing incident because this time I was not drunk out of my mind. We are not going to talk about how my lips still feel incredibly strange and tingly even though it's been a good few hours since and we are not going to talk about how the world has sort of been moving in bizarre slow motion since.

We are not going to talk about what it meant or why he did it or what the hell might have been bothering him so much anyway, although I suspect maybe perhaps seeing me with Algernon might have done something to him although I'm not sure why it would because he seems so completely determined to despise me entirely. But we aren't going to talk about that.

Or anything.

We're just . . . not.

Okay?

Okay.

**8:41 P.M.**

So, um, yes. Snape kissed me. A bit fiercely, too, considering mistletoe kisses generally tend to consist of rather abashed pecks on the cheek.

The mistletoe was, however, still a perfectly valid reason.

Anyway, so, it, er, went on for a bit. And then it sort of softened to the point where our mouths were just sort of brushing and then not even touching anymore, but our foreheads sort of came together for a moment and I really could not even begin to convey what on earth might have been going through my mind at that point in time, so it's probably quite a good thing that we're not going to talk about it.

But then, all of a sudden, it all came back to me that we were in fact standing in the Great Hall.

And so I opened my eyes, and there he was, and we sort of stared at one another for a few seconds before the sneer came fully back into place and he rather swiftly pulled away and stalked toward the table, muttering disgustedly to himself.

I just sort of stood there, as my legs had not yet remembered quite how to function beyond the whole knees-weakening action.

"Such an amusing tradition, is it not?" Dumbledore said merrily from where he sat, and took a sip of eggnog.

That was enough to sort of break the tension, and everyone began chattering again – though admittedly it was interspersed with many an unwelcome glance at either me or Snape. I took a moment to see who, exactly, had witnessed it: thankfully, not many students had arrived yet. Percy Weasley was sitting next to Professor Flitwick, and looked as though he might die of a heart attack (but honestly, that boy needs to loosen up anyway). Relief was just beginning to overcome me when my eyes flitted to the left of McGonagall and suddenly locked with my mother's.

And, oh, God, Notebook, it's all over.

She knows.

I mean, I'm not even precisely sure _what_ she knows because damned if _I_ know what is going on between Snape and me, but whatever it is, _she knows_. And she will use it against me somehow. I'll probably get lectured for hours about how I'm tarnishing my nonexistent relationship with the perfect man, even though I tried my best to ease over the situation when I sat down next to her by throwing out a jolly, "That mistletoe really can lead to interesting yet ultimately meaningless situations, huh?"

In retrospect, that might have been trying slightly too hard.

But the point is, _she knows_.

Which is why I am hiding up here all by myself. I told her I was grading papers, but I'm not precisely sure how plausible that excuse is, considering I know I won't get around to doing so until the night before school starts again. I just . . . can't be around her. Not after that.

And honestly, I'm not so keen on being around anyone else, either.

At least now perhaps if the rumours start up again, Professor Sinistra, The Whore of Hogwarts will have a partner in crime.

Although I guess that just sounds rather ridiculous. What would they call him? Sporadic Angry Kissing Attacks Man?

**8:48 P.M.**

If we _were_ talking about the kissing, I would feel faintly inclined to wonder whether he will strike again.

But we're not.

So I won't.

**8:49 P.M.**

Right then.


	23. Bah Humbug?

** Tuesday, December 24, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**11:40 A.M.**

_This is unnatural._

Let's take a moment to review, shall we?

Yesterday was altogether enormously surreal in its strangeness. You know, what with the random chivalrous acts of ex-boyfriends and my mother's bizarrely low degree of unadulterated evil and that hardly important but admittedly faintly strange part with the kissing of Snape. Even _my_ life, which tends to love showing off how enormously-surreal-in-strangeness it can occasionally be, doesn't usually go that far. Not to mention that the majority of my colleagues witnessed the last part. One would think they'd all be tempted to comment upon it, or at least to stop chattering at once and look appropriately guilty when I enter a room.

Instead – nothing.

And I mean nothing to the nothingest degree. _My mother_ hasn't said anything about it. And that's not just because I've been avoiding her like mad, either! Avoiding my mother is impossible if she wants to talk to you. After approximately twelve frenzied minutes contemplating how difficult it would be to change my name and flee to Albania, I resigned myself to this fact. I was well on my way to embracing my doom when she ambled on in here, peaceful as you please, and went, "My goodness, Auriga, did you even _bother_ to brush your hair this morning?"

(Which I _did_ , thank you very much.)

I just sort of stared back, dumbfounded, until she apparently got tired of waiting for some sort of coherent response. "All right, then: it appears you really are useless without a grotesque amount of caffeine in your system."

She then poured me another cup of coffee, inspected a lock of my hair for a few seconds before sighing in defeat, and ambled right back on out.

Let me tell you, Notebook, I was almost tempted to yell after her, "Remember yesterday's rather indecent snogging session with our resident overgrown vampire bat?"

I managed to refrain.

Mostly because I hadn't yet quite gained back the power of speech.

But whether I yelled after her or not isn't the point, Notebook. Not in the slightest. The point is that she's plotting something here – she _must_ be – and what's more, it's something bigger than I could've ever imagined. She's going to lull me into a false sense of security and strike when I expect it least! She's going to wait until the second I'm off my guard, and then, oh, then . . . then she's going to _destroy_ me.

That is, if Quirrell doesn't beat her to it.

The gift exchange is set to take place in twenty minutes. I've got the collar wrapped up in some rather jolly wrapping paper with little reindeer all over it. There's even matching ribbon, and a few tiny jingle bells, just in case. I happen to think it's perfectly light-hearted and festive, and not the sort of thing you'd give to someone who could potentially kill you.

Hopefully, he'll also happen to think this.

Jingle bells don't give off any sort of "I know you're evil and I'm onto you, mister!" air, do they?

They _do_ sound sort of sinister. You know, in the same way that little girls singing together can sometimes. Their innocence is so merry and unquestionable that when you stop to consider it, you realize precisely how suspect it is! How could _anything_ be as merrily and unquestionably innocent as jingle bells? It's just not possible! And Quirrell, being as familiar with all things dark and deadly as he is, is sure to figure it out in approximately half a second! And if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that that's not even close to a sufficient head start, assuming I need to run for my life.

All right. Perhaps I'll get rid of the jingle bells.

Just in case.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:09 P.M.**

Well. That wasn't exactly as traumatic as I'd anticipated. I am, indeed, still alive, and uninjured as well, save for a rather sore shoulder (courtesy of Snape brushing past me so brutally on the way out that I slammed into the doorframe).

I was right in the middle of confiscating the jingle bells when Trelawney sort of drifted in. She was quite abnormally smiley, and the first thing she said was a rather contentedly vague, "Auriga! Do you hear that?"

(Ah, the Christmas sherry. Which, from what I've observed, has very much the same effect as the regular sherry.)

Because the pressure was rather on and I'm pretty sure we've established that I don't work so well under it, I dropped the bells into my coffee mug. "Hear what?"

"That little jingling noise!" Trelawney persisted.

"Nope, 'fraid not." And then, thanks to a stroke of brilliance – "Perhaps it was your bracelets."

Which I happen to think should have been enough to shut her up. After all, when one wears forty-two bangle bracelets on a daily basis, they hardly have the right to remark upon any slightly suspicious jingling noises!

Trelawney, of course, spends far too much time around incense to be able to draw such a basic conclusion.

"I don't think so, my dear," she said, in this rather infuriatingly all-knowing way that reminded me a bit of how my mother might be were she to get drunk (which she never, ever would). "In fact, I suspect I've found an explanation to this baffling little matter!"

I made sure to hold my mug very still. "And what might that be?"

(To maintain this degree of secrecy with Trelawney was, of course, a little unnecessary. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to suffer through explaining precisely why I had taken the jingle bells off of Quirrell's Christmas gift and put them into my coffee. Batty as she is, I don't think she'd have bought that they added flavour.)

"Clearly," Trelawney said, her eyes widening to the point where, through her glasses, they looked at least three times the size one would expect eyes to be, "it is the work of the Inner Eye! It's quite busy, you know," she added rather confidentially. "Refuses to even take a rest on Christmas, the poor dear!"

Stupid sherry.

"Isn't the Inner Eye more inclined toward . . . _seeing_ things?" I ventured rather weakly.

"You'd _think_ that, wouldn't you?" Trelawney asked, in this tone of bizarrely jubilant triumph.

"Er," I replied, but was thankfully saved from getting sucked any deeper into the conversation by the very welcome entrances of Flitwick and McGonagall. Trelawney started babbling to McGonagall then, and I couldn't manage feeling anything other than relief. It's the tiniest bit achingly obvious that Trelawney drives McGonagall out of her mind, but honestly – if anyone can handle Inner Eyes with the power of hearing, it's Minerva McGonagall. By the time everyone had arrived, she was in full-on sardonic response mode.

When Snape came in, he immediately made his way toward the darkest corner in the room and stood there, glowering with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Normally, of course, I'd feel obligated to scowl at what an antisocial bastard he was being, but the second I caught sight of him I found myself a bit unfortunately overwhelmed by . . . certain memories. Yesterday-type memories. Not because it had been all that incredible, or any nonsense like that. Just because it's the sort of thing that you can't _help_ but remember. It's not as though it was just because it was Snape and he'd kissed me that I felt a little awkward! If _anyone_ had kissed me in such a spontaneous and savage (er, in a bad way) manner, I probably wouldn't be able to bring myself to make eye contact with them. If Flitwick, for example, randomly pulled me into a fiery and electric embrace in front of the majority of our colleagues, I'm not so sure I'd be on the best of terms with him, either.

(Probably because I would have, more likely than not, managed to crush him to death somehow.)

So, yes.

In conclusion, I did not look at Snape.

Anyhow!

Quirrell was the last to come in, and he was looking a bit pale and under the weather. Being Voldemort's devoted servant must get a bit exhausting, I'd expect. What with all the being evil, and such. Not to mention that Herman seems like he'd certainly be a difficult pet to maintain.

So, unlike Snape, I looked at Quirrell and smiled at him. I heard (yes, _heard_ – Trelawney's not the only one with bizarre abilities in that department) Snape scowling behind me, and that sent me into a bit of a panic. I'd felt like I'd been rather smooth and competent and not at all coming off like someone perfectly aware of every dark and twisted secret nested within Slatero Quirrell's blackening soul, but really, who knows? I'm not the best judge of that sort of thing.

But then Quirrell just smiled back (well, it was more like a spastic mouth twitch) and sank down into a chair.

As could be expected, Dumbledore was absolutely jubilant throughout the whole affair. He didn't seem the slightest bit discouraged by the fact that Kettleburn gave him a few rather hefty books, _or_ the fact that McGonagall's strained smile took on a decidedly homicidal glint when Trelawney presented her with a paperback entitled _Actualizing Your Aura – Combating Natural Ineptitude toward the Fine Art of Divination_. Having Dumbledore there was actually quite reassuring: I realized about fifteen minutes in that it seemed very unlikely that Quirrell would get wrathful and murderous with the greatest wizard of all time present.

Of course, for all his greatest-wizard-of-all-time-ness, he didn't exactly look like he was planning on doing anything about McGonagall's homicidal glint, but I don't think that's quite the same.

Anyway, I sort of hovered around in the background and waited to give Quirrell his gift. He didn't seem to mind; in fact, he looked like he'd sunk into a bit of an exhausted stupor. This worked in my favour, as it gave me time to actually build up a bit of nerve. What finally drove me to do it was casting a quick, non-kiss-thought-accompanied glance Snape's direction only to find him smirking at me in that timeless 'you ridiculous cowardly woman' way. The smirk disappeared as soon as it registered that I was looking at him, immediately replaced by the most disgusted of scowls. But the fact was that the smirk _had_ been there, and that was enough for me.

Almost in awe of my own daring, I made my way on over to Quirrell, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him the gift. "Happy Christmas, Slatero."

"H – how nice," he said, and smiled at me. "R – reindeer!"

He set it down on the table and balanced his chin on his hand, continuing to stare rather dazedly into space.

Which was rather rude, if you ask me.

"Slatero?"

He jumped slightly and turned to look at me, eyes wide. "What?"

"Are you going to open it?" I prodded gently.

"Ah! Y—y—yes, of c—course." He made a rather miserable attempt at a smile before reaching for the gift. He performed perhaps the most meticulous unwrapping of anything I've ever witnessed in my whole life (no small feat, considering the number of gift-worthy occasions I have spent in my mother's company). It didn't do much to soothe my nerves, Notebook, I'll tell you that much. Admittedly, the man didn't seem particularly interested in the situation, but that didn't mean that tension didn't build many times over in the seven and a half minutes it took him to remove the wrapping paper. Finally, he made it to the box I'd put the collar in.

He began to look up at me, most likely in a _H-how nice, a b-box!_ kind of way.

"Open it," I suggested, with as warm a smile as I could manage.

"O—of c—course."

He opened the box, and the collar was revealed at last. He sort of stared down at in silence for a few seconds, then looked up and offered me another utterly desolate smile.

"T—thank you."

And something about his reaction just made the entire situation so thoroughly _awkward_. I'd always thought it was rather self-explanatory, but really! Consider it objectively – a woman gives you a collar for Christmas. And he hadn't been considerate enough to say anything like "Herman w—will love it!" or "It's j-just his colour" – oh, no! And so I couldn't help but suspect, at least a little bit, that perhaps he hadn't even considered that it might have been for Herman.

Which subsequently just rendered it disturbing.

"It's not for you," I informed him quickly.

He blinked up at me in mild surprise. "W—what?"

"It's for Herman," I added, and gave him the jolliest grin I could muster. "To wear."

"Ah," Quirrell said, "How – how n—nice."

"Right," I agreed brightly. "Nice!"

He slumped down over the table again, staring at nothing.

And that, Notebook, was essentially the end of that.

Although it's stupid, I couldn't help but feel a little . .. well, _disappointed_. It's just that . . . I suffered quite a lot throughout the process of selecting that gift – I treated it as matter of life or death, thank you very much, and he didn't even have the decency to acknowledge he understood that it was for his iguana!

Hmph.

Men.

Even the evil mastermind-type ones are completely clueless.

Thankfully, fate decided to do a little something wonderful to ease the pain.

"Oh, _Severus_ , you doll!"

I glanced over just in time to see Professor Trelawney throw the scarf I'd picked out around her neck and start grasping rather desperately for a sprig of mistletoe that had been used to decorate one of the gifts and afterwards left on the table.

"Professor Trelawney, your enthusiasm is unnecessa—"

Snape was stunned into silence, through, by the rather enthusiastic (not to mention lengthy) kiss she pressed against his cheek.

"As of late, I've found myself yearning for a new scarf!" Trelawney announced after she pulled away, gazing delightedly up at him. "I think this suggests quite the connection, don't you?"

"No." (Twitch.)

"Nonsense! Severus, your heart may be hardened and cold, but I sense the passionate soul which lingers within! However hard you might attempt to hide," she concluded, not without a rather horrifying amount of coquetry, "my Inner Eye shall always see you!"

Destiny du Maurier would have been proud.

Snape, however, was not particularly impressed. On the contrary, he forced perhaps the most disgusted smile of all time before transitioning into full-on angry bat mode and beginning to swoop toward the door when—

"Severus! Surely you won't leave us and put such a grievous damper upon our festivities," Dumbledore called, perfectly agreeable, from where he stood.

Snape stopped, took a few very deep breaths, and then turned to return to his corner of solitude and general unpleasantness.

"After all," I couldn't resist muttering as he stormed past me, "it's not as though you're in the position to berate someone for observing that particular tradition, now, is it?"

I'm not sure I can begin to understand how one might _accidentally_ crush another person's foot beneath their own when the poor victim foot is completely under the table and therefore technically unreachable. Somehow, oh-so-surprisingly enough, Snape managed it.

Bastard.

Anyhow, save for my poor, suffering foot, the rest of the event went rather well. Hagrid came in around halfway through, apologized for being late, and promptly came over to me. Now, I love Hagrid. I do. He's terribly sweet, and is the only person I've ever met who is capable of making McGonagall giggle. That is nothing if not impressive.

But the thing is, I couldn't quite bring myself to expect the best gift from him. I was expecting some sort of tooth-breaking pastry, or perhaps a baby Niffler.

So by the time he came over, grinning broadly, I was already entering accept-graciously-and-never-stop-smiling mode.

"Auriga," he said, beaming as he handed it to me. "Happy holidays."

"You too, Hagrid. Thank you!"

"I think yer really goin' ter love it," he threw in excitedly, making me feel quite profoundly terrible about myself. Smile pasted on, I pulled off the paper to find—

A book.

But not only a book: a gorgeous leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets with a beautifully designed cover and gilded pages.

I stared at Hagrid, rather bemused.

"Whaddya think?" he asked, clearly pleased by the six thousand degrees of awe that had passed over my face.

"Hagrid, it's beautiful!" And then, because I couldn't help being slightly curious, "I didn't think you even knew I liked Shakespeare."

"Well, I didn'," Hagrid admitted. "But – er, a lil' bird let me in on it."

He cast a rather sly look in the direction of the corner of solitude and general unpleasantness, and then got called away by Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"You enjoy," Hagrid said rather furtively, winking at me before taking off.

And, well.

The rational assumption would be that Snape told him what to get me.

But . . .

No. Just no. I will not allow my mind to venture there.

And besides, when we finally all broke up the festivities, he made such a display of being eager to leave and never return that he sort of slammed up against me as he was trying to get out the door.

Although not in a sexy way.

I don't think.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say he's practically abusive.

No amount of pretty Shakespeare can make up for that.

**1:25 P.M.**

Well . . . maybe if Much Ado About Nothing somehow factored into the equation.

But as it doesn't, we will just leave it at 'abusive.'

**Bedroom Quarters**

**5:49 P.M.**

All right, I suppose I should have given Wimmy a few pointers concerning how to act about my mother.

Prancing around my room in a Santa hat while straightening up and crooning out Santa Baby far more suggestively than any Christmas song should be approached? Perhaps the kind of thing I should have warned him against.

"Auriga," my mother said, most elegantly disgusted as soon as I came in, "perhaps you should request another house elf."

"What do you mean?"

" _Been an awful good girl, Santa Baby!_ " came the voice of ultimate squeaky seduction from the bathroom. " _So hurry down the chimney tonight!_ "

My mother arched a perfect eyebrow at me.

"Oh, don't worry," I said, as nonchalantly as I could. "Wimmy's all talk. He doesn't actually, you know, want Santa to hurry down his chimney."

My mother cleared her throat pointedly.

"He's just spreading holiday cheer," I informed her, in as rational a tone as one can possibly use to defend a morally questionable house elf. "That's all."

" _Think of all the fun I've missed!_ " Wimmy contributed not-so-helpfully from the bathroom. " _Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed!_ "

"This seems like vastly inappropriate behaviour for a house elf," my mother remarked coolly. "Of course, I could very well be out of the loop about such things, but from what I recall, they consider it the gravest misconduct to so much as make their presence known to their masters."

"Dumbledore's a bit . . . lenient with the ones at Hogwarts."

(" _Santa baby!_ ")

"And besides," I couldn't help pointing out, "you can't _see_ him."

This, apparently, was not satisfactory.

"Perhaps I'll mention this to Albus," my mother went on, gazing rather formidably in the direction of the bathroom. "It doesn't seem remotely appropriate."

"Mum-"

" _Hurry toni-ight!_ "

Hmph.

If she loses me my house elf, she will pay. The woman can only go so far.

**5:56 P.M.**

_Why_ hasn't she brought up the Snape snogging yet?

 **Astronomy** **Tower**

**6:09 P.M.**

The Weasley twins have spent the majority of the afternoon following me around making over-exaggerated kissing noises, then leaping behind suits of armor or into empty classrooms whenever I turn around.

How is one supposed to respond to this sort of thing in a mature and teacher-ly manner?

They'd better be doing it to Snape, too. The whole stupid situation is his fault, after all.

Of course, his version of responding in a mature and teacher-ly manner probably involves a few Unforgivable Curses, or at least a dark, dank dungeon where no one can hear you scream.

**6:11 P.M.**

How is it again that he is an educator _of children_?

Albus Dumbledore is truly bonkers.

**9:42 P.M.**

Christmas Eve really is rather lonely when you've no one to spend it with. Even my mother is off having charming intellectual conversations with McGonagall, thus abandoning her own daughter whom she allegedly came here to spend all of her time with!

Thank God for McGonagall.

I suppose I could go down to the dungeons and see Snape - he was considerate enough to make a point of sneering at me all through supper - but somehow the idea of being around him without anyone else around just seems . . . unwise.

After all, they call him Sporadic Angry Kissing Attacks Man for a reason!

**9:44 P.M.**

Fine. _I_ call him Sporadic Angry Kissing Attacks Man for a reason.

Whatever.

**10:01 P.M.**

I cannot shake the feeling that I would be much happier if I could just go back to my room and have Wimmy serenade me with the complete collection of vaguely naughty Christmas songs. (I somehow sense he does a mean rendition of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.) Knowing my luck, however, he'll have dipped into the eggnog, and will allow his drunken, tiny house elf hands to wander to very inappropriate places the precise moment my mother comes in.

No thank you.

**10:11 P.M.**

Bah humbug.

** Wednesday, December 25, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**3:49 A.M.**

Exactly one hour and forty-three minutes ago, the door to my room burst open.

I didn't happen to notice this, on account of the fact that I was asleep. Which, I suppose, does not bode well for me, should I ever become the target of some menacing merciless night-attacking evil or something. Thankfully, this was not the case this time around.  
Instead, I rather groggily found myself being shaken awake by-

Victoria Vector.

Now, the first thing that came to mind was that I was dreaming, and would have yet another opportunity to give the Victoria of my subconscious a rather scathing and eloquently phrased piece of my mind. This theory, however, was promptly laid to rest when I glanced over and saw my mother fast asleep in the other bed that's been moved here for her stay. In no way would a dream so delightful that it involved shouting at Victoria exist in the nightmarish realm where my mother resides.

And so as it was, I found myself staring at her in rather irritated bewilderment. "Victoria, what th' hell're you-"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted rather awkwardly. There are few things I've seen as wrong as an apology coming out of her mouth.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she said again, this time with this rather rushed sense of urgency. "So sorry. I had no right to look at your diary and no right to interfere with Snape and Algernon and it was stupid of me to never really consider what it would do. I don't tend to consider things, you know - if an idea comes to me and it seems like it'll work, then I generally tend to think it _will_ work, which is just the sort of way that you start thinking when you've spent your whole life being spoiled and pretty and used to everything going exactly as you'd like it to because everyone tends to fall at your feet all the time."

She seemed to realize right here that she was going off-track a little. Fortunately for her, I was so bleary-eyed and generally disoriented that I couldn't quite manage any sort of ultimate glare of death.

"But that's not the point, of course that's not the point," Victoria said, shaking her head slightly as though doing so would help her remember the point. "It's just that I'm sorry, and I had no right to do that to you, and I know that you must hate me sometimes because everything in my life is so perfect and you've always got all this awful stuff happening, and I know it must seem like I think it's all a big joke, but I just . . ." She took a deep breath and sank down onto the foot of the bed. "I don't know how to be reassuring. I don't know how to make people feel better. And I realize it's no excuse for treating you so terribly; I've been wretched and it's been eating me up over the past month because I miss you and I know how wrong I was." She smiled in a weak, emotionally vulnerable sort of way that would have probably sent any male in the castle into raptures had they witnessed it. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

After all that, I had finally managed to regain the power of speech. Sort of.

"Aren't you s'posed to be in Paris?"

"I couldn't stay," she confessed. "It's exhausting being surrounded by the soulless and sophisticated. I'd rather be here."

Which was, of course, quite the blow to the non-sophisticated inhabitants of Hogwarts, but I let it slide as she genuinely didn't seem to notice.

"What about your fiancé?"

"He'll live," she said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. And then, with a rather anxious smile - "So, um, in the spirit of the season . . . forgive me?"

I paused for quite the satisfyingly long amount of time, trying to look as though I was offering the matter utmost contemplation, before sighing heavily. "Oh, fine."

She threw her arms around me in a most un-refined, un-Victoria sort of way and started laughing, all relieved. "Thank God. I thought I was going to have to make friends with Trelawney for the rest of my career-"

My mother chose that moment to let out a rather light, graceful moan and shifted slightly in her sleep.

"Oh, God," Victoria said, breaking away from me and staring in faintly awed disbelief. "Is that . . .?"

"Yep."

"She's here?"

"Uh huh."

"Oh, you poor thing," Victoria said, frowning sympathetically. "You want to go see if we can coax mind-numbing amounts of butterbeer out of the house elves?"

"Butterbeer isn't mind-numbing," I protested.

"Obviously, you've never seen yourself under the influence," she said, smirking.

And so we set off on our way downstairs, and for the first time, I found myself not particularly caring that I was in pajamas with frightful hair while she was still in her traveling cloak looking utterly flawless. Honestly, it didn't seem particularly important.

A thought dawned on me as we were halfway across the corridor.

"Speaking of house elves," I said, "what did you have to do to get Wimmy to let you in my room?"

She smiled rather deviously, and I decided that I was far better off not knowing.

I've just gotten back upstairs, all pleasantly warm and fuzzy courtesy of butterbeer and mended friendship, and d'you know, I can't help suspecting that maybe this whole holiday thing might not be so bad after all.

Happy Christmas, Notebook.


	24. Platonic Frustration

**Wednesday, December 25, 1991**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:42 P.M.**

You know, it was quite nice to have a few precious hours in which Victoria did not flaunt the fact that she is exceptional at _driving me out of my mind_.

Alas, all good things come to an end. Even, it seems, on Christmas.

The majority of the day was quite lovely and peaceful, with my mother ignoring me in favour of talking to those who make for far more intellectually stimulating conversation (remind me to thank McGonagall sometime, will you?), Snape sitting as far away from me as possible while still remaining at the same table, and everyone getting a bit tipsy from the really excellent elf-made wine served at the Christmas feast.

And by everyone, I mean everyone who wasn't Quirrell or Kettleburn – Quirrell, because he "d—d—doesn't drink," and Kettleburn, because he's finally figured out that when he gets drunk, he frequently winds up sharing personal anecdotes that everyone would be much happier not knowing, not to mention occasionally referring to Snape as 'sweetheart.'

Very much like every other year, Hagrid got steadily drunker until he finally wound up kissing an uncommonly giggly McGonagall on the cheek. Naturally, this led Victoria into an especially disturbing one-sided discussion concerning a potential romantic relationship between them. She rambled on and on about it as we walked back to our quarters afterwards, and I made an effort both to walk with a bit of dignity and grace _and_ to very ardently not listen to her.

"—of course, it's all very well and good until the sex issue rolls around," Victoria rambled on merrily, clearly oblivious to the fact that this was the sort of thing that had the potential to, oh, I don't know, _scar someone for life_. "Because I'm sorry – no matter how true the love might be, there are certain proportional problems that you're just not going to be able to get around—"

Which was really enough to ensure at least a straight month of relentless nightmares. "Victoria!"

"Hmm?" she asked innocently.

"Just wondering whether you were actually planning on ever looking either of them in the eye ever again," I said in a way that I _thought_ was clear enough to express the issue at hand.

It wasn't.

"Don't be silly, of course I am," she said, completely clueless. "We do work together, after all."

"You mean you're not going to be afraid that they'll be able to look into your eyes and immediately see all the twisted and disturbing things you've thought about them?"

"Why would I be?" she asked. "It's not like either of them is an accomplished Legilimens."

"But what if they _were_?" I pressed.

"They're _not_ ," she reminded me, all annoying and insistent. "Hagrid's not even a full-fledged wizard."

"Maybe there's an exception for especially revolting thoughts," I said stubbornly. "And then they'd know for certain just how sick you are."

"I'm just _wondering_ ," Victoria answered impatiently. "Honestly, Auriga. We're not twelve."

"I know that," I said, maybe a bit more grumpily than I should have. "It's just disgusting to think about, thank you very much."

"That's half the fun," Victoria responded devilishly, her eyes sparkling in that way they do when she's only saying foul things because she knows it bothers me. "And really, blame the people around here, not me. That's the closet thing we're going to get to juicy gossip. It's becoming dire, you know. I'm almost tempted to resurrect the How Many Days Will Snape Go Before Washing His Hair? bet."

Hee. I have to admit, my annoyance temporarily ebbed away just a little bit at the mention – and quite frankly, I don't think I can be blamed, considering it was one of Victoria's and my greatest feats to date. It was born one afternoon around three years ago, inspired both by boredom and by Snape's truly appalling hair. Turns out, we apparently weren't the only people around who had contemplated Snape's apparent vendetta against shampoo, because a considerable amount of the staff pitched in. (Even McGonagall, although she forbid me to reveal that particular information. So don't you go telling anyone, Notebook.) Flitwick, surprisingly, walked away from that one with twenty-seven galleons, correctly making the harrowing guess of six days. Except then Snape found out about it and went into twitchshuddersneering overload, which, while a bit frightening at first, might have wound up being more fun than the bet had been in the first place.

Oh, the memories.

This, of course, was back in the days when I hated him properly, and not in the far more confusing way where we are occasionally kissing.

I do miss those days. Very, very much. A lot. In fact, I didn't know how good I had it, back when he would sneer and I would glare and we'd argue like children and occasionally inflict "accidental" minor physical harm upon one another and that would be that. Believe you me, Notebook, when lips and physical contact enter into the equation, nothing but badness can result! It's a proven fact, plain and simple.

. . . unless it's CPR, I guess.

That is occasionally beneficial.

But still.

Anyway, because the rambling that just unfolded on this page was more or less exactly how my brain was functioning during the time the conversation took place, I responded to her mention of the How Many Days Will Snape Go Before Washing His Hair? bet with, "I kissed Snape."

I am at times so idiotic that it is almost magnificent.

Victoria's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Me," I attempted to correct at once, because I didn't want her getting the idea into her perverted brain that _I_ had been the aggressor in that particular situation, "was kissed. He . . . kissed me. He did the kissing. Snape kissed me. Not, y'know, the other way around."

" _Aur_ iga!" she gasped, with the sort of joy that normal people reserve for newborn babies and gigantic sums of money being left to them by dead uncles and new books by Gilderoy Lockhart. "How dare you leave me here blathering about McGonagall and Hagrid's theoretical sex life when this happened?! You're demonic!"

"Right back at you," I answered in advance, because I was (correctly) sure that now she was going to do something absolutely, world-shatteringly horrible.

"Well, quick, now!" she gushed, grabbing my arm with her perfectly manicured nails so hard that I am at least fifty-six percent sure she drew blood, "give me details! When? Where? Tongue? How? What did he say? What did you say? Was it as good as that time the Weasley twins spiked the punch at the ball and you both accidentally got spectacularly pissed and made out by the rose bushes? Personally, I don't know whether I'd be able to handle being that close to the man while completely sober; you're a lot braver than I give you credit for! Come on, now! Spill!"

"Come to think of it," I said, in a hearty attempt to change the subject, "who spikes punch when they're only in their second year? That seems like criminal behaviour, don't you think—"

" _Auriga,_ " she cut in, with this sudden deadly fierceness that very well might have frightened a Death Eater, let alone _me_. "Tell. Me. Now."

And it's not like I had any say in the matter at that point, now, was it? My life was on the line! And so I told her – reluctantly, mind you – about the argument and Christopher and the mistletoe and the fact that the entire Great Hall happened to witness it and the _mistletoe_ and the kissing and did I mention the mistletoe? And then, just in case the whole mistletoe aspect of it all hadn't been reiterated quite enough, I went over a brief explanation of the whole mistletoe tradition, and how you sort of have to kiss the person lest you otherwise bring a curse down upon your whole family for the next seven generations. Which I am relatively certain I made up in a fit of panic. At any rate, Victoria clearly wasn't having it either, because right in the middle of the "seven generations" part, she kicked me in the shin.

"Ow!"

"Oh, quit whining," she said impatiently. "Now, what are we going to do about this?"

Which immediately cued a nice shiny sense of dread. "What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

"This!" she exclaimed. "Obviously, the two of you are at the start of something here—"

"No!" I cut in frantically. "I thought I'd explained the mistletoe bit very clearly – you see, it's the _rules_ —"

"I did notice earlier that he seemed even more surly around you—"  
"—and Trelawney kissed him, too, did I mention, and _that_ certainly doesn't mean that _they're_ at the start of something—"

"—but that can just be chalked up to sexual frustration, no doubt—"

"He isn't sexually frustrated!" I told her desperately. "He's just the normal kind of frustrated! Because we frustrate each other!"

"Yes, yes," Victoria said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Sexually."

"Platonically!" I yelped.

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "There's no such thing as platonic frustration."

"Oh, really?" I demanded, getting a bit irrational. "Then perhaps I should be a bit worried about what's going on between the two of us right now!"

"Oh, Auriga," Victoria sighed, in the same voice she used with her less gifted Arithmancy students, "Don't attempt to convert to lesbianism just so you can escape from your feelings for him."

"There are no feelings!" I snapped.

She lifted one perfect eyebrow at me.

"Fine," I admitted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "Maybe there are feelings, but they're bad feelings that I don't want in the slightest, and I _hate_ them, and as it so happens, they're mostly feelings of hatred anyway, so it all really works out very nicely, and will you please, _please_ leave me alone about this?"

She snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. Not in a million yea—"

Except then she fell quiet very abruptly, and her expression shifted from all crafty and mischievously amused to freakishly kind and understanding in around two seconds. I knew at once that she wasn't to be trusted. I'd seen that transition on her face before, and it had resulted in a double date with her twin brother Lester who, interestingly, possesses no qualities remotely like hers, and instead only the misfortunate attributes of a man whose ears are twice as big as a normal person's and who has known a lifetime of adversity thanks to the fact that his first name more or less rhymes with his last.

Depressingly, he was one of the more thrilling men in my life.

But this isn't the time to reminisce about Lester, and I'm not only saying that because I'm still ridden with guilt over the fact that I told him I'd see him again sometime and then sent him a fake postcard from Alaska proclaiming that I'd decided to move there and embrace Transcendentalism in the heart of the deep dark wilderness. (Victoria, in a rare act of kindness, has yet to reveal the truth to him, but don't think it's not hanging over my head every day.)

"All right," Victoria said with a bone-chillingly sweet smile. 'I suppose I'll leave you alone. It's the least I can do, after I inadvertently got your boyfriend's spine broken and destroyed your only functional relationship to date and all."

Which is the sort of thing that you should be able to take at face value, but I knew better.

"Don't," I warned as menacingly as I could.

"What?" she asked, her blue eyes huge and innocent in a way that was about as convincing as Celestina Warbeck's brief foray into acting.

"Don't you dare!"

"Don't I dare _what_?" she persisted.

"I can see some horrible plan forming behind your eyes!" I exclaimed. "And just . . . stop it! It's not going to work, just like all of your other plans! And maybe this time," I added, on a streak of inspiration, "the spine that gets broken will be _yours_. Did you ever think about that?"

"Really, Auriga," Victoria said warmly, and looped her arm through mine. "You're ridiculously paranoid, do you know that? I _said_ I wasn't going to do anything!"

"Which means that you _are_ going to do something," I reminded her impatiently.

"Nonsense!"

"Quit planning!" I yelped, on the verge of hysteria.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Victoria responded with positively lethal pleasantness.

At that advanced a stage in the planning-of-doom process, my only hope was radical distraction.

"So!" I began as enthusiastically as I could. "How _about_ Hagrid and McGonagall, hmm? Come on, let's contemplate the intricacies of their potential sex life. You know you want to."

It probably won't surprise you, Notebook, to find out that McGonagall was, in fact, right behind us in the corridor at that point. Honestly, it didn't quite surprise me either – the humiliation still burned bright, of course, but I couldn't quite muster up the 'oh dear God, I can't believe this is happening' feeling that I have come to be so well-acquainted with. In fact, I would have been a bit worried if she _hadn't_ been standing there.

Such is life.

Fortunately, she wasn't at her most terrifying – I am occasionally very grateful for the existence of the alcoholic beverage – but she still managed a reasonably intimidating "Good evening, ladies" and accompanying eyebrow raise. I attempted to explain to her that we were talking about something very different that only _sounded_ questionable when taken out of context, but I'm not entirely sure she believed this. For now, I am living in the lovely fantasy world where she was not only tipsy, but in fact smashed enough that she won't recall anything about the occurrence come tomorrow morning.

A girl can dream.

Anyway, we headed back to our quarters, with me repeatedly insisting that Victoria not act on whatever cruel and sadistic thing she's planning, and Victoria in turn insisting that she was planning no such thing (and then offering to bake me cookies, because kindness does not come naturally to her, and she clearly does not realize when she's overdoing it to a highly suspicious degree). As soon as I got back here, I vowed that I wouldn't leave the room with Victoria no matter what temptations she might attempt to hurl at me.

Yes, even cookies.

Because no matter how convincing or charming she might seem, I just know that it will inevitably result in Snape and I getting locked into some sort of small enclosed space until we agree to confess our love to one another.

Which we most certainly wouldn't, on account of there not being any.

So you recognize my predicament.

Therefore, Notebook, I am just staying put. You mark my words. Nothing can drive me from this room.

Not even Wimmy's rendition of Tainted Love.

**10:06 P.M.**

Ack, it's even worse than it was the last time. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't put so much emphasis into the line "Don't touch me please; I cannot stand the way you tease", and stare at me so pointedly and yearningly with his great big elf eyes.

**10:07 P.M.**

And it's not as if I ever touch him anyway, so I don't know what he's going on about!

**10:08 P.M.**

Well, all right, occasionally I'll pat him on the head, but I'm quite certain that that's not the sort of touching Soft Cell is talking about!

**10:09 P.M.**

Maybe head pats mean something entirely different to house elves.

**10:10 P.M.**

Oh God. Oh God.

**10:12 P.M.**

Still not leaving.

**Thursday, December 26, 1991**

**Broom Cupboard**

**12:51 A.M.**

Shut up.

**12:53 A.M.**

At least Snape left. You know, it's not so bad in here, really. Maybe I'll just stay for all eternity – there's not a whole lot worth leaving for, come to think of it. My best friend, the antichrist? My maddeningly perfect and eternally disappointable mother? My relentlessly pining house elf? My relentlessly pining underage student? My not-my un-boyfriend of doom and endless sneering and (platonically) frustrating conversations?

I think _not_ , thank you.

That's it. I'm moving in.

**12:55 A.M.**

SPIDER.

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:03 A.M.**

Ahhh. It's good to be home.

Now, excuse me while I collapse into bed and sink into a blissful oblivion, where I can't remember a single bit of what just happen—

DAMN IT.

Mum's awake.

**Broom Cupboard**

**1:14 A.M.**

Right. Apparently, I had the right idea when I was here the first time.

Spiders aren't so bad, really. All you have to do is compare them to my mother.

Of course, spiders aren't the only problem here; oh, no! This place will also forever be tainted by oh-so-lovely memories of Snape.

Wonderful.

I suppose it could have gone much worse. I mean, both of us survived and everything, and the awkwardness was even quite minimal, considering it's my life. A strange solidarity comes alongside being conned by Victoria Vector.

Admittedly, I was something of an easy target. Yes, all right, Notebook, I _was_ rather steadfast and adamant about never succumbing to her evil plot a few hours ago, but that was before I was subjected to both Wimmy's tormented serenade and my mother's company. Truthfully, by the time Victoria showed up and very innocently asked if I wanted to come over and see what her fiancé had sent her for Christmas, I decided that her sadistic attempts at matchmaking quite simply couldn't be as misery-inducing.

Granted, being Stunned and shoved into a closet isn't really my ideal way to spend a Christmas evening, but it could have been worse. And once I was actually here, among buckets and mops and (although I didn't know it at the time) my new friend the great nasty spider of doom, I found myself a bit curious as to how she was going to get Snape there in the first place.

After about fifteen minutes, I heard their voices outside the closet.

"She's been crying in there for the past half hour," Victoria said, sounding rather convincingly panicked. "And I just don't know what to do. I tried consoling her, but she wouldn't budge."

At which point, I just had to roll my eyes at her incredibly flawed plan to unite us – it's already been very much established that Snape doesn't care nearly enough about me to get worried when I'm crying. Oh, no. Instead he just acts uncommonly sweet-ish and abruptly makes up for it by poking me in the eye.

Bastard.

"And you're certain she's a Slytherin?" Snape asked, sounding rather irritated. I realized then that Victoria was, surprise surprise, craftier than I'd given her credit for.

"I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise," she said earnestly. "But I figured since she's in your house, she's really your responsibility."

"Move aside," Snape said tersely. After a second, there were a few sharp raps on the door. "There, there, that's quite enough. Come out."

"I'm not sure that's going to work," Victoria said. "You might have to go in and give her a bit of a talking-to – she's really being quite irrational."

"I'm surprised you weren't able to handle the situation on your own, Professor Vector," Snape replied, in that lovely detestable way he has. "You do pride yourself on being so competent, do you not?"

I could hear him muttering in irritation, and watched as the door swung open. His eyes widened in not-too-pleased surprise when he realized that it was me and not some poor random weepy little girl, and he turned around just in time to meet a helpful shove from Victoria, then the door slamming merrily shut.

"Auriga—" he hissed from between clenched teeth.

"Don't blame me," I cut in crossly. "You think I can control her?"

Victoria's voice rang out cheerfully from the other side of the door. "Now, you two take some time to discuss recent events, all right? Don't be afraid to let it all out in the open. Your thoughts. Your feelings." (Snape twitched violently.) "I'll be back to let you out in a couple of hours!"

"Fantastic," I yelled back sarcastically.

I could hear her very chipper footsteps as she sauntered away; they were quickly replaced by a horrible, stifling silence. I glanced at Snape. He was glaring furiously at a mop around three feet in front of him. I started counting the seconds that passed, for lack of anything else to do. I'd gotten to seventy-three when he finally spoke up.

"You put her up to this, I don't doubt," he said darkly.

"Hardly!" I exclaimed, scowling at him. "Do you really think this is my idea of a holly jolly Christmas?"

"Judging by your past actions, Auriga, I would hardly be surprised," he responded evenly.

"What past actions?" I demanded, perhaps a little unwisely. "In case you've forgotten, _I_ didn't maul _you_ in front of the entire Great Hall!"

"Oh dear," Snape said, in that extra-smooth way of his that is essentially evil in liquid form. If voices could be liquid. "You haven't been dwelling upon that, have you?"

"No," I said as convincingly as I could. Apparently it wasn't very, because his eyes lit up in an especially cruel and nasty way.

"Something compels me not to believe you," he announced.

"Well, if you're not careful, something's going to compel me to shove that mop down your throat, you stupid greasy idiot."

"Touchy, are we?" he asked, smiling cruelly.

"No," I responded saccharinely. "The memory just happens to make me a bit nauseous, that's all."

"And I suppose," he said, in a tone that immediately let me know I was in for something even more detestable than usual, "you've been too wrapped up in your own petty self-delusions of your . . ." (sneer) "—irresistibility to consider that I was actually doing you a favor."

"What?" I asked, completely caught off-guard.

He brought his fingertips together and began drumming them against each other idly. "Do you or do you not recall the fact that there was someone else standing with us beneath that fateful bit of mistletoe?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "Christopher."

"Precisely," he said, with a sadistic sort of triumph. "And if I hadn't taken action, it would have resulted in a far more . . . shall we say, memorable kiss. This is, of course, judging upon the boy's apparent infatuation with you. While personally I can't help but suspect that this is nothing more than wishful thinking on your part, I decided to take the necessary precautions." His mouth twisted into a smirk. "I was moved, perhaps, by the Christmas spirit."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that one, because _honestly_. "Oh, that's complete rubbish and you know it."

"Is it really?" he asked, eyes flashing.

"Yes," I said boldly, and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Then by all means, Auriga, do explain to me the true motivations behind my actions." He took a mocking step toward me. "Do they by any chance include a deeply buried passion? True love, perhaps?"

"Don't be stupid," I retorted, trying very hard to ignore the fact that my profoundly stupid heart had started beating far faster than usual. "You were angry and you weren't thinking and saw the mistletoe and you kissed me."

"Because I adore you desperately?" he asked, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "Tell me, am I consumed with secret wanting for you?"

"I hope not," I scowled.

"Of course," he said quietly, but he was still all smirky and smug and apparently completely convinced that I was desperately in love with him. I still don't understand how on earth that man can twist absolutely anything out of being his fault. It's hardly fair.

I sulked in silence for a few minutes before the aforementioned silence really started to creep me out a little.

"Well, now that we've got _that_ all sorted out," I ventured, "what do we do? Victoria's not going to be back for ages."

"Splendid," he deadpanned.

"Oh, as if you had anything more important to do," I spat.

"Indeed," he responded sarcastically. "I can't think of a more thrilling way to spend the evening. Thank goodness your little friend came along and enslaved us."

"Well, what were you _going_ to do?" I demanded. "Sit alone in the dark and think of ways to become more unpleasant?"

"A practice that pales in comparison to staring into space crafting even more elaborate scenarios in which scores more men fall desperately in love with you," he shot back.

"When are you going to shut up about that?" I exclaimed, glaring at him. "I don't think everyone's in love with me! In fact, it's something of a miracle that I've got a student and a house elf under my spell, as both of them should know better. There! Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," he drawled.

But just between you and me, Notebook, he _did_ seem to sort of . . . lighten up a bit, after that. Honestly, I have no idea what goes on in his mind.

Nor do I want to know. Because that would imply that he interested me, which he doesn't, and I'm not going to continue this particular trail of denial, because it's quite late and I'm tired and I don't especially feel like making yet another epic profession about just how much I _don't_ care about Severus Snape.

Which I don't.

By the way.

So, anyway, considering anything resembling a personal discussion was clearly doomed to fail, I decided to pursue a different subject. "How do you know Quirrell's a servant of You-Know-Who?"

He frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"It's just . . . I've been watching him," I answered, a bit awkwardly, "on account of how I know that he's evil and could very well kill us all at any moment, and . . . I just don't see it. He doesn't seem evil in the slightest! He gets afraid in the dark and refuses to drink alcohol and carries his _beloved pet iguana_ everywhere, for Merlin's sake! It's just not evil behavior."

"Oh, really?" Snape asked wryly. "And what does constitute evil behaviour?"

"Swooping around like a great evil bat and being mean to people who are stuck in broom cupboards," I couldn't resist answering.

It was quiet for a moment, and then Snape said, "I never said he was a servant of the Dark Lord."

"What?"

"You jumped to that charming assumption on your own," Snape said. "In fact, I do not believe Slatero Quirrell has anything to do with You-Know-Who." He drew out the last three words a bit jeeringly, as though he thought it funny that I wasn't comfortable saying the name of the most horrific monster the wizarding world's ever known.

"Really?" I repeated, bewildered. "But . . . he's stealing the Stone. Couldn't he use it to restore life to You Know Who, if he still exists at all?"

"Most people aren't aware of that particular property," Snape commented. He almost seemed a bit impressed. "They're usually blindsided by the prospect of eternal life."

"I did a report on it for History of Magic in fourth year," I responded. "It stuck." Impatiently, I went on, "So couldn't he be doing that? Using it to bring him back?"

"Your mind leaps to ridiculous conclusions," Snape answered. "The Dark Lord is gone."

I took a breath, then asked, a bit unsteadily, "Is he?"

Snape glared at me. "Your melodramatics are hardly appropriate on this particular subject."

"But really," I pressed on. "It seems too easy, doesn't it? He goes up against a baby and that's that? Forever?"

It made me feel a bit sick, saying it out loud – because honestly, Notebook, there's a little part of me that's always wondered, but I've never quite been brave enough to say it aloud. Somehow, that makes it too real, and after living through You Know Who's first reign of terror – well, I really, really don't fancy the idea of a second one. And yet.

"There is no evidence to suggest he still exists," Snape said sharply.

"But—"

"Auriga," he snapped, "must you insist on complicating everything?"

"Sorry," I said – I could tell by the look on his face that it wasn't smart to continue on about it any longer. "So what do you think Quirrell's up to, then?"

"I believe he is out for glory, plain and simple," he responded bluntly. "It makes sense. He's a mediocre man, hardly impressive in any aspect. Imagine the exhilaration, the triumph in finally attaining such significance." His lip curled. "You of all people should understand that."

Normally, I'd have taken the time to get offended, but honestly, Notebook, at that point I was so interested in the conversation that I didn't bother. "So that's it? That's what you're basing all of this on?"

"It's no secret that he spent time with vampires in Germany," Snape said. "It's certainly enough to spark a fascination with eternal life."

And it made sense, I suppose, but something about it just didn't ring true.

"But then why did he curse Harry at that Quidditch match?" I asked. "If he's not working for You Know Who, then what on earth would he have against him?"

It seemed for a second like he wasn't going to answer me at all; his eyes sort of flashed, and his features seemed even more harsh than usual, somehow. But then he returned, quite quickly, to his normal level of unpleasantness, and started to speak.

"Harry Potter was nothing more than an infant when he destroyed perhaps the greatest wizard in history—"

"Except Dumbledore," I interjected automatically.

"Except Dumbledore," he allowed. "To a man whose entire life has been meaningless – whose very existence could very well fade into obscurity the very second it ended – it could ignite a resentment completely independent of the sides of a war, don't you think?"

"I don't know," I responded, frowning. "I don't see for a second how that can justify murdering a child."

"Well, then clearly you're a great deal more well-adjusted than one would think to look at you," he said after a moment's pause.

"Haha," I scowled.

He seemed to consider me for a second before observing, "You really haven't the slightest idea of what darkness can do to a human being."

"I suppose not," I answered, a bit irritated. "What – should I apologize or something, then?"

"No."

But the thing is, the way that he said it – it was like he wasn't Snape, or if he _was_ Snape, he was talking to someone he didn't despise, which is impossible because Snape hates everyone and therefore, it was, in fact, like he wasn't Snape. He just said it truthfully, like he was genuinely . . . well, like he felt _some_ sort of genuine emotion on account of the fact that I'm not completely corrupted by the dark side of things.

I really, really hate those moments where I can't help but wonder what went on when he was a Death Eater, and what drove him to it in the first place, and everything. It inevitably means that I have to hate him and pity him at the same time, in addition to the bizarre absolutely unromantic feelings that complicate everything already, and it is entirely too much for my poor addled brain to endure.

These were the types of thoughts I was putting up with at the time, and so I finally just forced myself to temporarily forget everything that had just happened.

"You know," I pointed out instead, "We didn't try Alohomora."

"Alohomora won't work," Snape said impatiently. He sounded exasperated with my ridiculousness, which was oddly comforting. "Vector might be a maddening self-obsessed shrew, but she isn't stupid."

"Just in case," I said, and retrieved my wand.

And, delightfully enough, the door popped right open.

Snape looked positively livid, which is usually enough to brighten up my entire life for an hour at least, but I couldn't quite shake the seriousness of the conversation we'd been having. We started off down the hall side by side, neither of us saying anything.

"So you really think it's Quirrell, then?" I couldn't help but ask (in a whisper, though – I'm not completely daft).

" _Yes_ , I really think it's Quirrell," he whispered, clearly not exactly thrilled with me, "and you may stop meddling now."

"What if it's not?"

"Auriga—"

"Well, there's a possibility!" I insisted. "What if you're completely off-base?"

"I'm _not_ ," he said, gritting his teeth.

"What if you are?"

"I'm _not_ —"

"But what if—"

Except then our potentially everlasting argument got abruptly interrupted by the sound of a great deal of wheezing as Filch sprinted very unimpressively down the corridor.

Snape immediately stood up a bit straighter, then glanced at me for a split-second; it was quite obvious that he suddenly didn't want me around. More than usual, I mean.

Filch didn't seem to share the same concern, because he announced, in that lovely crackly voice of his, "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library - Restricted Section."

"The Restricted Section?" Snape repeated, frowning thoughtfully. "Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."

And, well, I couldn't help but be horribly intrigued, Notebook! It was obvious that Snape thought it was Quirrell skulking around doing apparently-evil things, and this was my chance to finally see him at it. Because quite frankly, I don't think I'm going to be able to go on believing that he's as fiendish and desperate for glory as he apparently is just based on what Snape says. He seems perfectly nice, if a little bit shy to a near-psychotic degree, and there's something very depressing about living in mortal terror of a man who has an iguana called Herman just _because_. I wanted validation, damn it, and I was going to get it!

"Maybe I should—"

"No," Snape whispered fiercely.

"But—"

" _Stay_ ," he hissed, and then took off down the hall with Filch.

And I suppose I could have followed them, or something, but considering how (still platonically) frustrated he was with me, I wouldn't have put it past Snape to trip me, or use me as evil-Stone-stealing-fiend bait. And besides, it's not as though this is the only opportunity I'll have to find out more about Quirrell. In fact, I'm determined to get to the bottom of this!

It's not that he's not suspicious, or anything – except that, well, it is. Beyond the fact that he wears a turban, which is rendered quite unintimidating by the fact that it just smells strange, there is nothing conspicuous about the poor man. And quite frankly, it sort of seems like Snape is overidentifying just a bit. It's not as though I don't remember the way he was treated at school. And all of that about mediocrity and insignificance and desperation for glory? Well, I doubt that he was just making that up off the top of his head.

And Snape may understand what darkness can do to a human being, and refer to You Know Who as 'The Dark Lord,' and know everything about the dark arts, and look far more menacing in black, but there's a perfectly good chance that his judgment is clouded in these particular circumstances. For God's sake, he can't be trusted to save the entire school – not to mention the _world at large_ – from the Stone Stealer Who May Or May Not Be Quirrell (But Personally, I Can't Help But Lean Towards Not)! Oh, no. Someone else is going to have to handle things this time around, and considering I seem to be the only person who's even noticed that something fishy is going on, I suppose it's going to be me.

And you know what, Notebook? That's just fine with me! In fact, it's spectacular! I may not be able to keep a man, or use a mascara wand, but this is a turning point for Auriga Jane Sinistra! No longer am I completely and utterly incompetent – oh, no.

I'm going to get to the bottom of all this, and the Stone Stealer Who May Or May Not Be Quirrell (But Personally, I Can't Help But Lean Towards Not) is going to rue the day they decided to try to rob Hogwarts School of the Philosopher's Stone.

Go on. Revel in my Gryffindor-esque bravery.

**1:49 A.M.**

OH, GOD, THE SPIDERS.


	25. The Consequences of Firewhisky

** Thursday, December 26, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**3:40 P.M.**

_HONESTLY._

You know, just because you spent a bit of time locked in a broom cupboard alone with a man you are occasionally known to kiss or maybe throw things at certainly does not mean that anything romantic, racy, sexual, or profoundly kinky went on! We aren't a couple of hormonal sixth years, thank you very much!

(And come to think of it, we were rather lucky that there weren't any in there. This school has a definite problem in that area. Maybe it's something in the water.)

But try telling that to Victoria, who fancies herself such a genius right now that I have reminded her six times that she forgot to do an anti-unlocking spell on the door – you know, just to remind her that she is imperfect like the rest of us. She seems to go mysteriously deaf whenever I do this, though, so I'm not sure how effective it's been. I refuse to give up trying.

You know, I really do wish Snape and I'd been in one of our throwing things phases a few days ago rather than the stupid kissing phase. (Do two occurrences count as a phase?) That way, none of this nonsense would have taken place, and she wouldn't have bothered to lock us in a cupboard in the first place.

Well, actually, she probably would have. She knows that I have quite the impressive aim with a coffee mug.

And, well, she and Snape really, really do not get along.

But that's not the point here.

The point is that she is driving me _crazy_.

Yes, all right, I suppose it might have been a mistake to be all mysterious about what we'd talked about, because obviously it would have made it sound like maybe some stuff went on that would not be out of place in the lyrics to one of Wimmy's favourite tunes, but I couldn't very well tell her about the Stone-stealing situation! And so instead I just kind of mumbled "nothinginterestinghappenedIswear" and stared at my shoes.

Maybe this _is_ my fault, a bit.

Ooh, all right, she's just walked in.

Let's see if we can have a normal, civilized conversation. Maybe I am blowing this out of proportion, as I apparently tend to do.

**3:50 P.M.**

Aaaughh! Who does things like that?! In broom cupboards, no less! Is that all the rage in France? Is it appropriate to utter those kinds of words out loud?

This is officially not my fault. This is the fault of one Victoria Vector and the fact that she is foul and twisted and lives to drive me insane.

Hmph.

** Saturday, December 28, 1991 **

**Teacher's Lounge**

**2:12 P.M.**

All right, fine. I told her that Snape and I made out a little, just to appease her.

It was almost worth it to see her partake in a bunch of squealing and victory dancing. I know that she's my best friend and everything, and that I love her more than almost anyone else I know, but there are few things more delightful than seeing her look ridiculous. I figure I'm justified in feeling this way, considering everything that she's done to me.

And no, Notebook, there is no point in you reminding me that this is going to come around somehow, someday – probably sooner rather than later – and completely and utterly destroy me. I already know that very well, thank you. I knew it while I was saying it, too, but quite frankly, I happen to know that I'm impressively capable of withstanding that sort of thing. Such is not the case for being relentlessly nagged by Victoria Vector.

So there.

** Sunday, December 29, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**3:35 P.M.**

She _told_ my _mother_?!

** Monday, December 30, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**11:32 A.M.**

I am beginning to worry about my mother.

She's leaving tomorrow, you know! Her time is running out! She witnessed her distressingly frazzle-brained excuse for an offspring claim to be dating the man appointed the third most eligible bachelor in Witch Weekly Magazine, then make a very public display of "affection" (mind the quotes) with an antisocial cloaked fiend who is surrounded by jars filled with pickled cats at least fifty percent of the time, _then_ apparently make out with him in a broom cupboard! This is devastating on many, many different levels! This is me failing to seek out proper hair care heightened to the thousandth power!

And yet guess what she's had to say on the matter?

That's right – _nothing._

WHY WON'T SHE DISAPPROVE OF ME?!

**11:40 A.M.**

Perhaps I ought to be enjoying this.

**11:42 A.M.**

Nope. Not going to happen. It's far too unsettling.

** Tuesday, December 31, 1991 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**9:30 A.M.**

The day is upon us. She's finally leaving.

And yet . . . ugh, Notebook, this is clearly further proof that I am irrevocably twisted and self-destructive, but . . . I'm almost disappointed.

 _Why_ hasn't she said anything? Has she finally just decided that I'm far too much of a disappointment to endure, and she's just writing me off altogether? Do you know, it really figures: Lyra gets every member of the Weird Sisters tattooed across her back and gets a chuckle and a pat on the head, and then I make the perfectly innocent mistakes of keeping a lecherous house-elf around and standing too close to the man for whom the word 'bastard' was invented under the mistletoe, and find myself plucked right off the family tree.

Lovely.

To be honest, Notebook, a large part of me is determined not to care in the slightest, but, well . . . I do like Dad.

**9:35 A.M.**

Although, I suppose, if he happens to hear about Snape, he'll probably go completely mental and storm over to Hogwarts, overruling all the anti-Muggle protection with nothing other than sheer rage, and waste no time whatsoever in punching Snape in the face.

**9:36 A.M.**

Aww. Dad.

** Wednesday, January 1, 1992 **

**Bedroom Quarters**

**1:02 A.M.**

Kissed Quirrell. Just kissed Quirrell. Snape is mean. Go away, Christopher. Kettleburn. So weird. SO WEIRD. Not good. Too drunk for more words. Quill feels strange. Heavy. Night.

**9:00 A.M.**

Ughhhhhh.

I hate New Year's Eve.

**9:03 A.M.**

A lot.

**Teacher's Lounge**

**10:00 A.M.**

All right, Notebook. I'm here. I'm showered. I'm alive-ish. I'm nursing my third cup of coffee in a fit of desperation. I'm not about to ask Snape for anything to make the thousands of little clog dancers in my brain take a bit of a breather, though, because he's decided to be especially foul lately. His wrath at Quirrell isn't lessening by any means – we'll get to that later; hurrah – and to make matters worse, a group of especially crafty fifth year Ravenclaws who stayed for the holidays look to have nicked a couple of bottles of compliance concoction. They apparently meant to use it on Snape in order to compel him to give them all perfect scores on their welcome-back-from-the-holidays-now-suffer-you-fools exam – which, honestly, I find admirable of them more than anything – but one of them chickened out and confessed the whole thing. In retaliation, Snape gave them each two weeks' worth of detentions and took away a collective 450 points, which lands Ravenclaw in the technically-impossible realm of negative-point territory. Still, if you think that that's enough to appease his rage, then you are desperately, desperately wrong.

Such a delightful fellow, that one. Needless to say, I'm choosing to stay away.

And, er, I suppose I should record everything that went on at last night's New Year's celebration in the Great Hall, reluctant as I am to . . . actually relive it. It is really just a universal fact of life that I should not be allowed near alcohol of any sort, let alone firewhisky, but I was feeling a bit stressed and reckless on account of Mum being so pointedly silent and Victoria repeatedly demanding a play-by-play of Snape's and my nonexistent closet snogging and Snape loathing humanity in general even more than usual on account of the Ravenclaw scheme. And well, there's only so much I can take.

Thankfully, I wasn't the only one indulging in the Ogden's: Hagrid and Flitwick got into a good-natured drinking contest, which is the sort of thing that one really wants to keep in their memory forever, even if the outcome was rather predictable. McGonagall was unleashing her customary sarcasm upon Trelawney even more vigorously than usual – another sort of thing that one wants to keep in their memory forever, as it so happens. Even Dumbledore was feeling jovial enough to wear the flowered bonnet he'd got out of the wizard's cracker on Christmas all night, although I suspect he mightn't have had anything to drink at all, and that was just him being Dumbledore.

So, the evening was passing quite pleasantly – Mum stayed away from me to smirk at McGonagall's Trelawney harassing and everything – until a few minutes to midnight rolled 'round.

"Professor!" came perhaps the most unwelcome voice possible. "Are you drunk?"

This was, I think, the third most unwelcome question Christopher Goldstein could have ever asked me, right after "Will you marry me?" and "Did you know that my poor mother's dying wish is for you to [insert some kind of deeply inappropriate, Victoria-approved practice here with me?"

And so I responded in the only way I possibly could have; simultaneously mustering up all my indignant fury and attempting to focus on his face long enough to give him a disapproving glare, I answered, "Of course not!"

"Oh," he said, sounding a bit disappointed.

Unfortunately, I followed this up by attempting to walk away and promptly falling over, which was apparently enough to negate the whole not-being-drunk possibility.

"Maybe a little tipsy," I amended.

"I can help you," Christopher offered at once, chipper as could be, and promptly yanked my arm away to loop it with his.

"That's okay!" I protested as valiantly as I could, attempting to swat him away so covertly that I couldn't actually get in trouble for manhandling a student. "I really—"

And then, of course—

"Oh dear," Snape said, appearing out of nowhere in particular with a smirk on his face. "What have we here?"

"Bugger off," I ordered, making an attempt at pulling my arm from Christopher's and subsequently almost losing aforementioned arm altogether.

"Language, Auriga," Snape answered, eyes glinting. "What _are_ you teaching our impressionable students?"

It didn't take a genius, or even a remarkably sober person, to realize from the look on his face that he had stupid scathing Nabokov references positively erupting in his detestable brain.

"I was just helping Professor Sinistra," Christopher said, innocently as could be.

"Which you probably don't approve of in the slightest," I was quick to add. "What do you think, Professor Snape? Detention?"

"For helping a teacher?" Snape repeated, unconvincingly feigning surprise. "Goodness no, I think not. In fact, Goldstein, five points to Ravenclaw."

This really says a lot about the nature of our relationship, when one pauses to consider his current vendetta against Ravenclaw. Sure, he might be so furious with them that he will do everything in his power to punish them to a near wildest-dreams-of-Argus-Filch-esque degree, but, when it all comes down to it, my suffering is still his top priority.

Touching, that.

"I hate you," I informed him as ardently as I could.

"Professor Sinistra, perhaps you ought to work on setting a better example for your students," Snape finished, in all his merciless, sardonically smirking glory. "Good evening."

Which really would have been quite fine and dandy with me, except at that precise moment, everyone started counting down the seconds 'til midnight. And, well, I was still essentially arm-in-arm with my boy-Lolita, and damned if I was going to let Snape walk away, smirking and carefree, while I was forced to endure what would unquestionably be the worst liplock of my life.

Well, maybe the second worst.

Third worst.

" _TEN – NINE – EIGHT –_ "

And so I sort of attempted to fight my way through the crowd after Snape, dragging a very merry Christopher along—

"Snape – wait – damn it, Snape—"

He didn't, shockingly.

"— _SEVEN—SIX—FIVE—"_

"Don't worry, Professor! I've got you!" Christopher assured me, a positively lecherous grin across his face. "And I'm not letting go, either!"

_"—FOUR—THREE—TWO—"_

"A—Auriga?" The tap on my shoulder was just about the most welcome bit of physical contact I've ever received, and no, that is not the sort of thing that should be contemplated after the end of this sentence. "I was w—w—wondering if I might h-have a wor—"

"Thank you," I said fervently, and threw myself into the arms (and onto the lips – er, with mine, you know; not in general) of Slatero Quirrell.

**10:16 A.M.**

Well, now, don't look at me like that, Notebook. I was _desperate_. It was either Quirrell or Goldstein, considering Snape apparently only yields to holiday-related kissing traditions when it suits him, and quite frankly, Quirrell definitely comes off as the more appealing of the two. Funny-smelling turban and all.

Thankfully, more or less everyone was enduring their own kissing adventure of some sort, and nobody seemed to notice. Well, nobody save for Christopher, whose arm was still looped through mine, Quirrell, who obviously couldn't have missed much, and Snape, who was watching from afar with an especially pronounced scowl.

"Er," I said, as casually as I could, and tried to shake Christopher off. "Happy New Year."

"Y-y-yes," Quirrell answered, his eyes big enough to resemble a house elf's. "L-likewise."

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

Quirrell cast a rather hasty glance in Snape's direction, then answered, "N—nothing. Goodnight."

It was clear – or at least somewhat recognizableish through my firewhisky-induced haze – that this had something to do with Snape's belief that Quirrell is the antichrist's especially greedy cousin, which immediately piqued my curiosity. I watched Quirrell scamper off, and was just about to trail after him, only to find that Christopher was still attached to my arm in a way that might make a Permanent Sticking Charm a bit envious.

I was a bit impatient at this point, not to mention losing all of the feeling in my arm, and snapped a touch impatiently, "Did you want something, Christopher?"

"No," he said, with a rather morose sigh, and wandered off. However, I'm not quite sure I truly believe that being mere inches away from me as I kissed Slatero Quirrell with reckless abandon is going to be enough to get rid of his infatuation with me. I am far too jaded for that kind of optimism.

At least I'm temporarily free.

Probably.

Anyhow, things were blissfully uneventful for the next half hour or so until everyone started heading off to bed. In an attempt to avoid Mum (who, granted, probably didn't even give a damn that I'd locked lips with yet _another_ vaguely freakish Hogwarts staff member, but just in case), I took a detour down one of the emptier corridors and found myself across the hall from an abandoned classroom that Snape just so happened to be ushering Quirrell into. I crouched down behind one of the suits of armor and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"Quirrell – might I have a word?" Snape asked. And, all right, writing them here, they don't seem particularly menacing, but honestly, Notebook, _I_ shivered once or twice in fright, and I wasn't even his target! You see, with Snape, it isn't the words that matter – it's the sinister message laced within them. And in this case, "Quirrell – might I have a word?" can be roughly translated to _I hope you told your iguana you loved him before you left, because guess what? You might not live another day to impugn his reptilian masculinity._

Quirrell, naturally, was distressed. "I'm quite t-t-tired, actually, Severus, and I-I—"

"Oh, it will only take a moment." _That's right; there's a good chance you'll die here, cowardly turban-wearing scum._

"I—"

"I must confess myself curious about your recent activities." _I see through you like a piece of glass, and I can kill you where you stand with nothing more than the tone of my voice._ "The Restricted Section, Quirrell?" _Nothing more. Than the tone. Of my voice._

"I – I d-don't know what you—"

"Harry Potter performed admirably in the first Quidditch match, did he not?" _You know, that time that you tried to kill him, much like I am going to do you._

"Y-yes, c-certainly, but—"

"It would be remarkable, wouldn't it, to possess that inherent skill for glory?" _I understand every interworking of your mediocre, fiendish mind, and will not hesitate to use it against you._

"I d-don't know what you're—"

"Of course you don't." _Yes you do._ "Just know that I am onto you, Quirrell. Tread carefully." _Bitch._

And then he was gone, leaving Quirrell to stand there alone and look utterly and completely miserable, like he didn't quite understand what he'd done to deserve winding up on Severus Snape's bad side. And if he _is_ as evil as Snape says he is, he sure does an impressive job of hiding it, Notebook: he looked genuinely chilled to the bone, and it wasn't as though there was anyone there to witness it.

Well, except for me, but I can be quite stealthy when I need to be, thank you.

Except for the part where I sort of failed to notice that I was, in fact, _not_ the only person there to witness it.

Oh, shut up. I was smashed-ish, remember.

"Auriga?"

I turned to find Kettleburn there, his harsh features creased in a frown.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding very much like he might have if I was a student who had just accidentally snapped a bowtruckle in half.

"Oh, just, er, clinging to this suit of armor," I answered, quite nonchalantly. Let no one say I can't think on my feet.

He just eyed me skeptically, though, all 'You genuinely expect me to believe that this bowtruckle decided to break itself into two, then?' (Not that I speak from personal experience back in my own schooling days. Most certainly not.)

"Really?" he asked, his quizzical raising of his left eyebrow not at all impaired by the gigantic scar running through the middle of it.

"I'm quite drunk," I added as sincerely as I could.

Apparently, even _that_ wasn't explanation enough for him. "Are you sure you weren't eavesdropping upon the conversation going on in that classroom?"

"Maybe that too," I confessed, deciding there wasn't much else I could do considering the circumstance. "A little."

Strangely, he actually seemed to take personal offense to this, which I still can't quite figure out. He's never shown any particular attachment to either Snape _or_ Quirrell (except for the drunken "sweetheart" incident); really, who could blame him? "Not particularly considerate behaviour, now, is it?"

"I'm sure they won't mind," I answered lamely.

"Oh, really?" Kettleburn demanded, on his way to irate now. "Shall we ask them?"

"That's unnecessary," I informed him, trying to sound pacifying and mostly just managing to come off as ineffective and drunk. "Really, Professor, it's nothing—"

"You think that's all right, then, don't you?" he asked furiously, accidentally giving the suit of armor a bit of a punch in the face in the middle of his emphatic gesturing. "Spying on the private business of your coworkers?"

Considering Kettleburn and I have never had much interaction not of the 'How about the weather today, hmm?' and 'Really, I _am_ sorry about that bowtruckle' variety, I wasn't exactly sure how I was supposed to respond to this very random psychotic outburst. "No, of course not! It's just that this is sort of a – a special situation, and—"

"I'm unimpressed, Auriga," he cut in angrily. "That's hardly displaying any sort of respect for us."

"Hold on a minute – I didn't mean—"

"Who's next? Minerva? Dumbledore, maybe?"

"Of course not!" I cried. "I just – come on, surely you must know about Snape and I – I spy on him and he steals my sweater and it all balances out very nicely—"

"SWEATER THIEVERY?" he boomed. "IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?"

"Um," I replied, "yes?"

He looked for a second as though he was going to actually explode; then, luckily, he seemed to decide against it. He took a couple of deep, indignant breaths before saying, very sharply, "Lovely. Just lovely. Goodnight."

Then he spun around and walked away.

"Goodnight, then," I called rather weakly after him.

So, in addition to my other not-so-savory accomplishments, I am now responsible for having driven the normally pleasant Care of Magical Creatures professor completely mad with my inebriated eavesdropping-type ways.

And I thought that I couldn't get any more offensive than the Whore of Hogwarts.

And of course, Snape and Quirrell couldn't very well miss his little outburst – Snape, of course, went into angry sneering overdrive at discovering my presence there, pausing to mutter "Typical" at me before swooping off into the night. Or, er, well, down the hall, I suppose.

Quirrell just stared at me for a moment, looking frightfully torn, before giving a sort of hopeless shrug and scampering off in the opposite direction.

So now, not only do I have to deal with the renewed wrath of Snape, who has discovered that I dare not to take his word as law and am actually attempting to understand things for myself – oh no, there's the added complication that Kettleburn might very well start snapping his own bowtruckles and blaming it on me out of vengeance. Not to mention poor Quirrell, who I can't help suspecting hopes I'll protect him from Snape. And might also think that I'd like to sleep with him.

And in addition to all of that, there is, of course, the hangover.

Blargh.

And Mum.

Blaaaargh.

**4:55 P.M.**

The good news: she's gone.

The bad news: she _approves_.

I just . . . I don't . . . what am I supposed to do with this information? Is she serious, or is this all some cruel, manipulative joke that only makes sense in her freakishly brilliant, I-practically-understand-the-interworkings-of-Albus-Dumbledore's-brain mind? Because quite frankly, if that's the case, it's a little unfair, don't you think? Yes, I was in Ravenclaw, but it's still _a little much to ask_.

Maybe she didn't mean it at all. Maybe it's just . . . revenge, for Paul breaking that vase of Gran's when he came home with me for the Christmas holidays, or for me keeping Wimmy around. I knew I should have told him to lie low after the Santa Baby incident, I _knew_ it!

Er, Wimmy, I mean.

Although come to think of it, I suppose that does apply to Paul as well.

Well, either way. Oops.

But still! I can't quite bring myself to believe that that gives her the right to do _this_.

And, okay, Notebook, I guess we've reached the point where I should probably tell you what, precisely, ' _this_ ' is. But I warn you – it's shocking and unsettling and disgusting and a number of other adjectives that convey that particular sense of horror. So just . . . be warned. And hold me, possibly, because I am suddenly in need of quite a bit of emotional support.

All right. So, Mum finally decided that she had to be going, and I, the dutiful daughter that I am, volunteered to go with her down to Hogsmeade for a bit so we could stop in at The Three Broomsticks for a drink and then she could Apparate on home. All the while, she chattered airily on about the state of things at Hogwarts, wondering politely-yet-disdainfully whether Trelawney was "quite fit to be teaching" – for once, something we agree upon – and commenting that Kettleburn seemed much jumpier than usual. (I remained conveniently silent during this part.) Almost unsurprisingly by that point, she didn't as much as come close to mentioning a certain dark and greasy sporadic kisser. I tried to pretend that some part of me wasn't waiting for her to, because honestly, with her perhaps twenty minutes from being out of my way at least 'til summer, I didn't want to accidentally compel her out of silence with the fact that Snape was lingering behind my irises.

Or, er, maybe another sentence that sounds a bit less Destiny du Maurier.

So, we stopped in and got a couple of Butterbeers; as we sat down, the conversation shifted to Mum's very favourite topic, the criticizing of my appearance. Within approximately twenty-seven seconds, I was so irritated that I sort of wanted to hit something. It was strangely comforting, though. Familiar. Of course, now I can't help but suspect that she was just attempting to lull me into a false sense of security. Right after a four-minute lecture concerning how easy Sleekeazy's is, if only one is willing to show the proper hair care initiative, she just sort of fell silent for a moment and then said, frowning slightly, "Darling?"

Annoyed as I was, I responded with a rather snappish, "Oh, _what_ now?"

Very crisply, as though this was something that had to be said rather than something that would shatter the foundation of my existence, she answered, "Love is often blind. Perhaps it's best to just acknowledge that."

Needless to say, this resulted in me spilling butterbeer all over myself in shock.

"What on earth is that supposed to—"

"Kisses!" She chirped quickly, threw a couple of air kisses in my direction across the table, and Apparated away, sudden as you please.

And so there I was, alone and dripping with butterbeer, left to come to terms with the most mystifying realization I have ever had to endure.

. . . My _mother_ approves of Snape and I. _My mother._ My mother hasn't approved of anything related to me since that fateful instance when I was four and, in the act of dressing myself for the first time, chose my blue jumper over my pink one.

If I didn't know better, I'd think the two of us were destined to an unnatural degree.

**5:02 P.M.**

I do.

Y'know, know better.

Just for the record.


	26. Adventures With The LDPAOOHM Society

**Thursday, January 9, 1992**

**Bedroom Quarters**

**8:10 A.M.**

_Well._

It's always so lovely to be reminded of precisely how mad absolutely every single one of my coworkers is. _Honestly_. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if McGonagall confided in me that she has always harbored a secret desire to take up belly-dancing, or Flitwick ate his own fingernails, or Madam Hooch confessed that she's secretly a man.

. . . well, honestly, that last one wouldn't be entirely shocking.

But you get my point.

In any case, there is a part of me that can't help suspecting that Victoria, Quirrell, and Snape have formed a club called The Let's Drive Poor Auriga Out Of Her Mind Society, and Kettleburn's just been inducted.

Now, let's recount just how lovely this morning was.

Victoria walked in and, instead of 'Hello' or 'Good morning' or even 'Hey, you there,' greeted me with, "I've been giving it some thought, and you ought to shag Snape."

"Um," I answered, "good morning to you, too."

"No time for that," she said impatiently. "I think it's time, don't you?"

At this point, I had decided that the only hope for preserving my sanity was by imagining an entirely different conversation between us. In the imagined conversation, Victoria was making the sort of polite, normal, socially decent conversation that you can expect from most human beings. (Although admittedly, not most of the ones working here.)

"I slept just fine, thank you," I said. "How lovely of you to ask."

"I didn't ask how you slept," Victoria said, frowning. "I told you to sleep with Snape. You know, shag him."

"Yes," I said, with a long-suffering sigh. "You said that already."

"I thought I had," she said, with a little self-satisfied sort of nod. "Then why on earth are you talking about sleeping?"

"Because I refuse to discuss Snape with you ever again," I answered as calmly as I could. "That's why. Also, I'm not going to shag him. Ever."

"Oh, come on," she cajoled, "It's his _birthday_. I might hate the prat, but you obviously don't, and even he deserves a bit of action, don't you think? Besides," she added with an entirely wicked grin, "You know you want to."

"I know no such thing," I snapped back.

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "You two have been indulging in random snogging sessions over the past couple of years; surely you must realize that you're going to have to take the next step sooner or later? And really, why not today?"

"I don't know," I said, glaring at her. "Maybe because it's never going to happen. Ever."

"You made out with him in the broom closet," she pointed out.

"What?" I realized just about then exactly what a stupid move that had been, and figured I might as well attempt to fix the situation while I still could. Or, well, probably couldn't, but might as well have tried before it wreaked too much damage. "I just made that up so that you would leave me alone."  
"Sure," she said knowingly.

"No, Victoria! I swear, I—"

"Just think about it," she ordered, then stood up and flounced on out.

Well, I wasn't going to let her have the last word like that, Notebook! Not for a second.

"You can lock us in all the broom closets in the bloody castle, and I still won't shag Severus Snape!" I shouted after her – conveniently, at the same time as a rather bewildered-looking Quirrell happened to come in.

"G—good morning, Auriga," he said a bit hesitantly, in that troublesome way that civilized people do.

And, well, I couldn't help but feel hugely uncomfortable.

"I'm not going to shag Snape," I assured him, as comfortingly as I could manage. "I mean, that's not denial, or anything. It's just – Victoria has this stupid idea in her head, and she's completely wrong, as usual, and – it's not going to happen. I just . . . thought you ought to know."

"That's n-nice," Quirrell said.

And by that point, well, I figured that I might as well attempt to clear up all of the Whore of Hogwarts suspicions he had probably begun to embrace. This seemed like a perfectly practical idea in my head. Of course, in my head it sounded a lot more convincing and a lot less utterly mental.

"And, um, contrary to what certain – slight – bouts of kissing might have led you to believe, I'm not going to shag you either." He sort of inadvertently twitched a little at that, and I couldn't tell whether he was offended, afraid, or a mixture of the two. Just in case, I went on, "Er, no offense. You're a very nice man and everything. And the turban really is quite – exotic, and I can see how lots of women would go for that. It's just that I'm not . . . one of them."

He stared at me.

"Um, good morning, by the way," I added hastily.

"Yes," Quirrell agreed awkwardly, although he really seemed to be doubting this more and more with every second that passed. "S—sleep well?"

"Yes! And, um, not with anybody else." In retrospect, that bit was probably unnecessary. "Just in case you were . . . wondering."

"Hmm," Quirrell said politely.

"Say," I said as brightly as I could, more to change the subject than anything else. "Didn't you want to talk to me about something?"

His face immediately turned a slightly alarming shade of gray. His eyes flitted to the door, then back to me, then over to the corner, then back to the door, then to me again. It was a little dizzying to watch.

"I k-know you're f-familiar with Snape," he finally said, in what was barely a whisper.

And, fine, I'll admit it: my immediate reaction to this may or may not have been something along the lines of 'Quirrell _too_? My _mother_ wasn't enough?'

"Platonically," I answered sharply.

Then I realized that Quirrell was probably more alarmed by the fact that Snape seemed to want him dead than by the fact that the entire universe seems to be playing matchmaker with the two of us, and I graciously added, "Why?"

"H-he seems . . ." Quirrell gulped. "A-angry with me, and I d-don't know why. He's n-never been like this b-before—"

"Er," I said, thinking fast. "Maybe it's because you wound up with the Defense Against the Dark Arts job this year. It's not as though he ever wanted to teach Muggle Studies, so he had no problem with you before. That makes sense, don't you think?"

"I s-suppose," Quirrell said, a little doubtfully. "B-but he seems to think that I'm . . . up to something. S-something sinister."

He looked positively terrified at the thought of being up to _anything_ , let alone anything sinister, and honestly, Notebook, in that moment, I had reached the point where I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that he was remotely fiendish.

"You helped to protect the Philosopher's Stone, right?" I asked, as casually as I could. His reaction, I figured, would help a lot in telling me what I wanted to know.

He didn't seem remotely caught off-guard by it, like someone who, say, was plotting to _steal_ the Philosopher's Stone probably would have. Instead, he just frowned slightly, as though he couldn't understand why I had brought it up. "Y-yes. But what does t-that have to do with—?"

Of course, then I realized that I would have to talk my way out of it casually now that I'd brought it up. Which, just in case you hadn't noticed, isn't precisely my strong suit.

"Your contribution," I said, thinking fast. "It didn't . . . rhyme in any way, did it?"

"N-no," Quirrell said, looking bewildered.

"Well, there you have it," I said, with as much conviction as I could muster. "He's bitter because he had to write a stupid little poem, whereas you probably got to do something quite cool and dangerous."

"I don't see how that—" He fell silent abruptly, and his eyes widened. "Auriga. What if he thinks I'm t-trying to steal the S-Stone?"

I tried to laugh in an airy, unconcerned sort of way. It didn't particularly work. "Now, why would he think a silly thing like that?"

"I d-don't know," Quirrell said, looking terrified. "B-but it all makes sense! W-why else would he be t-threatening me this way?"

"He's a bastard," I said firmly. "Can we really be expected to understand the interworkings of his mean, greasy mind? I mean, really—"

"B-but why did he bring up Harry Potter?" Quirrell muttered feverishly, ignoring me completely. "W-what does he have to d-do with–"

"'Morning, _Severus Snape_!" I cut in very loudly and emphatically as Snape swept in. Quirrell let out a little squeak of fright and then fell very abruptly silent. "Fancy seeing you, _Severus Snape_ , here!"

"Hello," Snape replied, eyeing me warily.

"Happy birthday," I said brightly. "Shall we sing, Slatero? I think we should sing, don't you? _Happy birthday to—_ "

"Oh dear, Auriga," Snape cut in. "Someone hasn't given you access to firewhisky again, have they?" His gaze shifted to Quirrell. "I'd advise you to be on your guard, Quirrell."

Quirrell let out a barely audible whimper. Honestly, beneath my many layers of frenzied panic, I couldn't help but be a bit impressed even then at Snape's ability to bust out a double meaning.

"No," I said, as pleasantly as I could. "Just cheerful."

"And I see you two decided to take your coffee together this morning," Snape said, his lip curling slightly. "How cozy."

"We're not cozy," I said quickly.

"Come now, Auriga," Snape drawled. "Why hide your affections? I assure you, I find it entirely touching."

"Shut up," I ordered by default.

"As you wish," Snape said, smirking. "I shall leave the two of you to your tête-à-tête, then."

"Wait!" I said abruptly as he turned, coming to a decision. "I need to talk to you."

"A-Auriga," Quirrell whispered desperately. "D-don't—"

"Do you really?" Snape asked sardonically. "Lucky me."

I rolled my eyes, and followed him out into the corridor. I took a quick glimpse back as I did it, and the last thing I saw was Quirrell staring at me in absolute terror, mouthing the word 'NO!' over and over again. Well, he might have been living in fear of Snape – and honestly, I can't quite blame the man – but _I_ certainly wasn't going to, Notebook! I was going to inform Snape just how ridiculous he was being, and at the time, I figured that Quirrell would thank me for it eventually.

"It's not Quirrell," I said promptly.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"It's not Quirrell," I repeated, more firmly. "He has no idea why you're bullying him all of a sudden, and when I mentioned the Stone, he didn't look remotely guilty – just confused! Don't you see? You're completely off the mark here, and it's only going to hurt all of us in the end. The real culprit's out there, and you're just wasting your time on an innocent man—"

He cut me off with a sharp, scathing laugh. "Auriga, as usual, you are entirely delusional—"

"Am I?" I demanded, taking a step closer. "It's one thing to torture your students, Snape, but this is different. This is a serious accusation you're making here, and you haven't even got anything to follow it up besides a completely senseless bias against the poor bloke—"

"Your blindness amazes me," he interjected fiercely. "You are playing right into his hands; surely you see that. Of _course_ you, with your naiveté and your romantic delusions, would believe that a docile man with a stutter wouldn't for a second be capable of anything less than the kindest behaviour – especially if he seemed on his way to being the latest in your collection of wayward suitors—"

"Don't you start that again!" I cut in irritably. "Just because you can't comprehend the notion of having actual faith in people doesn't mean that they're all secretly rotten to the core, which you'd understand if you could actually _manage_ proper emotions—"

"As usual, you're being completely ridiculous—"

"No, really," I interrupted sharply, and glared up at him. "Have you ever actually been attached to another human being? I mean, honestly."

That actually seemed to sting a bit, which surprised me for about two seconds before he decided to retaliate by being even more loathsome than usual. He leaned down a bit closer, all the better to potentially scar me for life.

"I suppose you like that idea, don't you?" he muttered nastily. "That I am a soulless fiend who cannot possibly comprehend the depth and meaning that accompanies caring for another human being. It must make things terribly easy for you."

"You're not doing much to contradict it," I said shortly.

For a second, he just glared down at me. He finally opened his mouth, as though he was going to argue, but at that precise moment, Victoria came striding down the hall. She took in the sight of us, all intense-ish and a couple of inches apart at most, and a thoroughly delighted grin spread across her face.

"Good girl," she said, and winked at me before disappearing back into the staff room.

The tension was effectively shattered, which was a bit of a relief, honestly.

"What on earth was that about?" Snape demanded, staring after her with a scowl.

"Oh, she wants me to seduce you for your birthday," I replied, without really thinking about it.

"Charming," Snape said, wrinkling his nose. I am relatively sure that if I'd said 'I'm going to chop you into bite-sized pieces and then feed you to the giant squid,' his reaction would have been the same. Perhaps a tad less disgusted.

"She's insane," I said dismissively, then added, "I'm not going to, by the way."

"Thank God for small mercies," he murmured. Then his gaze darkened again, and he said, in the same way he might talk to one of his non-Slytherin students, "Now, keep your thoroughly addled brain from contemplating Quirrell any further. I assure you, he is the culprit, and I assure you, I have it entirely taken care of."

Well, needless to say, Notebook, by that point I'd gotten entirely sick of that kind of talk from him! Just because he said it in a way that would have made an unassuming first year drop dead in fright didn't mean that I was immediately going to embrace it as truth. Not after all of the other logical, sane evidence pointed towards the fact that he was completely wrong.

"You're being stupid," I said angrily. "You just don't like him because he took your job, and because you're projecting all of your own ridiculous Death Eater issues onto him."

This probably wasn't a smart move, which I knew but couldn't quite bring myself to care about at the time. His expression turned rather lethal, and he hissed, all deathly, "How dare you?"

"Well, it's not fair!" I said, refusing to cower before his I-make-chimeras-look-like-nifflers furious glory. "It's not him."

"It _is_ him, and you're an idiot if you think otherwise," he snapped. "Although truthfully, that comes as no surprise to me."

"Why is it that you're so sure it's him, then?" I demanded, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "What's this incontrovertible proof that you're not sharing, hmm?"

"That is none of your concern," he said sharply.

"Y'know, I really disagree," I retorted. "I'm in on this now, and you can't very well expect me to just carry on like I don't know there's a Stone-stealing traitor in our midst!"

"Yes, I can," Snape said, in his cold, unforgiving, 'six thousand points from Gryffindor and twelve eternities of detention' voice. "Butt. Out."

I decided in that moment that I absolutely _wouldn't_ butt out; in fact, I'd do the opposite of that! I'd figure out the _true_ meaning of all of this, and I'd save the Stone while Snape was off chasing poor innocent stuttering men who couldn't even look him in the eye properly. But of course, all of this would be much, much easier to accomplish if he didn't _know_ that I was doing any of it.

"Fine," I said sharply, trying to sound as though I'd very reluctantly given up, and spun around to storm off.

Unfortunately, I stormed right into my new dearest friend, Professor Kettleburn.

I looked back just in time to see Snape swooping off down the hall, all sinister, and then turned, very reluctantly, back to face Kettleburn.

"Well," he said rather huffily. "He seemed displeased with you."

"He's always displeased," I responded truthfully. "And, er, I've been meaning to talk to you, by the way. Listen, I'm quite sorry about how—"

"Sorry, are you?" Kettleburn repeated, and let out a slightly crazed sort of laugh. "You should be! And don't think for a second that you didn't deserve that little talking-to from Snape, either. That's what happens when you go snooping into other peoples' business."

"Um," I said, "all right," and resisted the urge to add _Mum_.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Professor Sinistra," Kettleburn finished darkly, and then brushed rather roughly past me and into the teacher's lounge.

Which really seemed quite rude and entirely unnecessary, if you ask me. I mean, what's _he_ got going on that's so important and secret that he lives in fear that the batty Astronomy professor that _no one_ takes seriously is going to find out and use against

**8:46 A.M.**

Oh.

**8:47 A.M.**

_Oh._

**8:48 A.M.**

_OHHH._

**8:49 A.M.**

Would it be a bit irritating and redundant if I said 'oh' again?

**8:50 A.M.**

**_OH._ **


	27. (Feels Like) Thirteen Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the immortal words of the BSB: oh my God, we're back again!! (Everybody rock your body?)
> 
> Quick recap: Last time on Lamentations in the year 2007 (oof), Auriga and Snape knew that someone was on a mission to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Hogwarts. Snape was steadfastly convinced of Quirrell's guilt, but Auriga thought the poor fellow was innocent and realized that there might indeed be another suspicious faculty member right under their noses: Kettleburn, the mysteriously grumpy Care of Magical Creatures professor who freaked out at her about wanting her to keep her nose out of other peoples' business!
> 
> Also, they have a pesky habit of snogging under random circumstances. (Auriga and Snape. Not Kettleburn and Quirrell. That's probably a different fanfic. Also, wouldn't poor Head Voldemort get kind of jealous? I bet he would! I blame A Very Potter Musical for this stance.)

**Saturday, June 6, 1992**

**5:30 PM**

**The Hospital Wing**

Oh, Notebook! Sweet, beauteous notebook! Can it really be you?? I can hardly believe it. I had forgotten the feeling of my hand against your smooth, lovely pages! The tender whisper of my quill against your paper-skin!

… Ahem. Best stop wandering down that particular descriptive path.

After all, as I’ve recently learned, I never can know when you’re next going to get stolen and read by somebody else.

All right; I probably should’ve learned my lesson about that already, since both Snape _and_ Victoria had peeked into you in the past. But that was just them being utter pains in my arse. It had nothing to do with sinister plots afoot at Hogwarts, nor someone thinking I’m a formidable enough threat to their diabolical schemes that my journal is worth stealing.

(Can you believe it? Me! He must have realized pretty swiftly that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. I wonder if he made it to the bit where the house elves dyed me purple. Maybe that’s what inspired him to lock you away. Thank goodness the other professors searched his quarters and recovered you for me after, well, everything that happened.)

Oh, I can’t believe we’re together again! I imagine you must have been quite worried about me, seeing as I left off on such a suspenseful note.

Er, not that you’re capable of worry, of course, since you’re inanimate.

But I know you worried a little, and believe me, I appreciate it. To think you were trapped in that awful man’s quarters for all those months! Disrespectfully stuffed in that drawer! The sheer nerve!

I can’t believe it was only January when I wrote last. Granted, that was six months ago, but it feels like so much longer has gone by. A decade at least! Plus a few additional years! Thirteen years feels about right, to be specific. Thirteen’s got a certain sinister energy, and these have been sinister times.

You see, when I last left off, I was quite convinced that I’d just solved the mystery of who was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. Snape’s fixation on Quirrell as the culprit seemed more obsessive than sensible, and I didn’t want to let the real villain get away with it just because a certain potions master was being a bull-headed fool. And to my credit, Professor Kettleburn was acting seriously suspicious! It turns out it’s just because he was dating someone down in Hogsmeade and didn’t want the news to make it to Hogwarts, since apparently the faculty of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is, and I quote, “relentlessly gossipy.”

Really! As if we haven’t got better things to do than talk about that old grump’s love life.

(Though when she visited me earlier, Victoria and I _did_ do quite a bit of lively speculation on who, exactly, Kettleburn doesn’t want us to know about. We’re determined to chaperone all the Hogsmeade weekends next year so we can really begin to investigate. Besides, I can never get enough of Madam Puddifoot’s, even if I _do_ have that pesky cherub allergy.)

It turns out that Snape was right. It was Quirrell. The man had me fooled with his stuttering and his tremulousness and his iguana ownership.

If I had a bit more energy, I’d be seriously full of dread at how insufferable Snape’s going to be now. As is, I’m content just to relax in my Hospital Wing bed, let Poppy pamper me (and Wimmy; he’s been popping in multiple times a day with absolute delicacies from the kitchen!), feel relieved that Harry Potter will wake up just fine one of these days in the bed a few down from mine, and stare out the window at the gorgeous summer days that I came so close to missing. And, of course, wait for the lingering stiffness to leave my formerly broken bones.

I suppose I should explain exactly how it was that I almost died the night before last.

But just now, I’ve got an absolutely gorgeous shepherd’s pie to tuck into.

More later, sweet Notebook!

  
  


**Sunday, June 7, 1992**

**9:46 AM**

**The Hospital Wing**

Good morning, dear Notebook! You’re looking positively pagey and exquisite today, and it’s a joy to look upon thee!

(I promise I’ll dial down my affection to a reasonable level one day. But not yet!! _Reunited and it feels so good,_ as Wimmy might sing!)

Just in case you needed proof that the world has entirely upended itself ever since the incident with Quirrell and the Stone: I woke up this morning to a hand setting a mug of coffee beside my bed.

I knew at once it wasn’t Poppy’s hand. Poppy is ardently against coffee for her patients. She says the caffeine in chocolate is one thing, since chocolate’s got legitimate medicinal properties, but coffee has no place in a hospital wing--gets one all jittery when they should be resting, and all. The joke’s on her, really: I am the most naturally jittery person to ever enter Hogwarts. If anything, the coffee slows me down.

Anyway, I looked up to discover that the hand was attached to an arm that belonged to Severus Snape. A Severus Snape who was clearly trying to be as quiet as possible, no less. Once he put the mug down, he paused to eye the card in the bouquet of flowers on the table, which Algernon had graciously sent over when he heard about me getting injured. (Nothing for him to get petulant over; we’ve lost touch, and are strictly corresponding on a ‘Glad you didn’t die!’ basis.)

Once upon a time, I might have worried at Snape seeing me right when I’d first woken up. Fretted that he would mock my hair, or my breath (though really; what would he be doing getting close enough to find something to mock?), or the way I squint helplessly until I find my glasses, or my choice in pyjamas.

But now, I simply said, with all the irritating sweetness I could summon, “Thank you, Severus!”

He twitched.

“It’s nice to know how much you really care, underneath it all.”

Shudder.

“I always suspected it, but this piping-hot, personally-delivered coffee, this really proves it--”

Sneer, right on time, and then: “ _Evanesco_!”

My hot coffee immediately vanished, leaving me to take an appreciative sip of room temperature nothing.

Before I could protest, Snape had disappeared in a whoosh of black cloak out of the Hospital Wing.

Now I suppose I’ll just sit here alone and coffeeless.

It’s not a big deal, really. Wimmy will smuggle me some coffee later, along with whatever magnificent pudding the house elves have whipped up today. (We really should start paying them. Why don’t we pay them?) Even if there was no Wimmy, which is a horrifying thought, then Christopher Goldstein could probably be persuaded to bring me a cup; he dropped in yesterday to apologize for his impertinence earlier this year, and to assure me that he’s found a nice Hufflepuff his own age who he’s wild about. (I’ll believe it when I see it. Not that I don’t _want_ to believe it, of course. I just don’t want to let my guard down too soon.)

But there was something about the thought of Snape knowing how much I’d miss coffee, and actually bothering to bring me some.

I wish I’d been less obnoxious to him.

… No, actually, I take it back. It was totally worth it. There’s something very fortifying, I’ve found, about witnessing a classic Severus Snape twitch-shudder-sneer.

Now, why am I writing again?

Oh, right! I’d promised to explain what happened to cause my six month vanishment and sudden return to your handsome pages.

It’s funny: once upon a time, I’d thought nothing could get me out of the habit of obsessively journaling my every thought and experience, but it was quite easy to fall out of it once I didn’t have a means to anymore. The day after I last wrote, I came back to my quarters and you were gone! I searched everywhere, and did a fair bit of interrogating the most likely culprits -- Victoria, Snape, Wimmy, Professor Sprout (well, all right, maybe I was a bit irrational by then) -- but I got nowhere. Not even “Accio Notebook!” produced any results. Finally, after a week, I was forced to give up the hope of finding you. I tried scribbling on random parchment, and even in a replacement journal that Victoria very kindly picked up for me from Hogsmeade, but it just wasn’t the same.

So I let it go, and leaned into my life of keeping an eye on Professor Kettleburn.

It was easy to become quite obsessed with it during my many daytime non-teaching hours; when you suspect one of your colleagues wants to betray the whole school, it’s hard to shake it off and feel at ease. I enlisted Wimmy to keep an eye on him, and he reported to me that Kettleburn snuck around at odd hours, took a lot of trips to Hogsmeade that he clearly wanted to keep secret, and received mysterious correspondence that he was very cagey about. I spent a lot of time pondering what was going on in his head, and spun some elaborate theories about him being bitter at Hogwarts for taking so many years of his life (not to mention appendages), and bitter at Dumbledore for listening to Hagrid -- the groundskeeper, not even a Hogwarts graduate (I’ve always suspected Hogwarts must be at fault there; can sweet Hagrid ever really be at fault for anything, besides his rock cakes?) -- for advice on how to protect the Stone over _him_ , the Care of Magical Creatures professor. At our staff meetings on the subject, he wasn’t shy about voicing his umbrage; he thought that Fluffy seriously lacked nuance. Now that I’ve faced Fluffy firsthand, I cannot disagree.

But that’s neither here nor there.

The point is: wouldn’t immortality look pretty appealing to somebody who was forever losing bits of his body? In short, I had made a case for Kettleburn’s guilt before too long, and it had me thoroughly convinced. I still maintain that it was a pretty good one, apart from the whole not-being-true aspect.

Then there was a whole exhausting two weeks where Victoria was convinced I’d given up on subconsciously wanting to shag Snape (ew) and fallen in love with Kettleburn (double ew); thank Merlin you weren’t around to have to bear witness to _that_ saga. But I was so grim about the whole thing that even my perverted best friend gave up on trying to invent me a tawdry love life.

Meanwhile, Snape kept up his obsessive monitoring of Quirrell, convinced that he was right. (Well, he was. But we aren’t at the point in our recap yet where he gets to be smug about that!) We were in a bit of a standoff, since both of us were so sure that we were on the right track with our suspicions and so totally unwilling to listen to the other. It became easier to just avoid talking altogether. These past many months, we’ve mostly communicated through glares and trodding on each other’s feet “by accident” when we’re briefly in close proximity.

It was somehow -- and don’t you read into this, Notebook -- more miserable than our old form of interaction.

There was one night where I thought he might have crept up to the Astronomy Tower to apologize to me (well, either that, or it was Kettleburn on his way to silence me for being a too-brilliant investigator), but then Filch found out that it was Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, up to some uncharacteristic shenanigans. Ordinarily, I would have been more intrigued to find out what on earth they were doing -- I’m quite protective of the Astronomy Tower! -- but between not talking to Snape and losing my mind over Kettleburn, I didn’t have the energy.

I was trying to figure out how to approach Dumbledore and make a convincing case against Kettleburn, even though the man’s taught here since I was a student and I know Dumbledore holds him in the highest regard. When I told Wimmy to roleplay as Dumbledore (ugh, not like that) so I could practice my pitches, and not to hold back in his authentic headmaster-y reactions, he always wound up banishing me from Hogwarts forevermore for my insolence.

I was in a real gloomy funk, Notebook. Even Harry scoring the Gryffindors a spectacular win at Quidditch and making Snape so angry he spat on the ground couldn’t do much for me.

Then a few nights ago, Snape approached me, and things got very frightening very fast, and, well, the truth all came out.

Notebook, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disclose some pretty disturbing information to you.

Are you ready?

Are you sure?

Well, all right, then.

Here goes.

Actually, I might take a little break to prepare myself. My hand hurts -- Merlin’s beard, I’m out of practice!

**10:27 AM**

All right. I’m back. (And I’ve had coffee, so I’m fortified. Thank you, Wimmy!)

Ahem:

The reason

Quirrell wore that turban all the time

Was because

He was using the back of his head

To host

YOU-KNOW-WHO’S FACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know you must be experiencing some extreme nausea right now, Notebook. God knows I did, when I was confronted with that knowledge for the first time. I was near enough to Quirrell that I noticed the funky smell (essence of concentrated evil, it turns out) wafting from his turban loads of times!

But really, it’s worse than that. Back when I was trying to get Snape off my mind last fall, I tried to seduce a man with You Know Who living on the back of his head.

Now You Know Who knows firsthand what a crappy seductress I am.

On the plus side, I suppose I did my own part to fight against him, in my way, because that can’t have been pleasant for him, now, could it? He was probably terrified that Quirrell would take me up on the offer, and where would that leave ol’ You Know Who? His face smooshed against the pillows, his ears (did he have separate ears? Did Quirrell have four ears? AUGH!) overhearing some _very_ personal noises.

Oh, blech. I hate that I just thought that.

But he probably would have hated living it even more.

I am basically a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

I suppose I should explain the logistics further, Notebook, instead of just leaving you with the disturbing fact that Quirrell’s had a head full of Dark Lord all year. (Then again, of course you already must have known that, or at least suspected it, since you had to live in his quarters and overhear all their creepy conversations! Not that you’ve got any ears. Lucky you.) It turns out that it was just like I suspected when Snape and I talked in the broom cupboard all those months ago: a fragment of You Know Who _did_ survive his encounter with baby Harry, and he was finally able to get a physical host again when Quirrell came across him in the forests of Albania and happily invited him into his body.

Ugh. Ugh!!!

I can’t believe anyone would do anything so ghastly. Yes, I remember what it was like back during the war; like anybody, I bore witness to all the different ways he ensnared people you would’ve thought better than that. But now, after we’ve started to move past all that? The idea that anyone would do such a thing is too foul for words. I can’t believe a Hogwarts professor would sink so low. I can’t believe he was the single parent to a (mostly) innocent iguana! You can’t bring up a reptile in an environment like that! What chance does the creature stand but to become a rogue humper of innocent Astronomy professors?

Oh, poor Herman. I wonder what’s happened to him. I’ll definitely have to ask Victoria when she visits next.

**10:40 AM**

The Weasley twins just tried to drop off a toilet seat to an unconscious Harry (Poppy loved that), which made me think:

What about when Quirrell went to the toilet?

I need to stop thinking about this.

**1:40 PM**

Took a lovely lunch break! It doesn’t matter how old I get, I suspect; I’ll never tire of a classic Hogwarts tray of endless sandwiches.

Now that I’ve had a bit of time away, and banished the thought of toilets out of my mind, I guess I ought to explain properly how it all happened.

You see, a few days ago, Dumbledore was called away for urgent Ministry business, so I made sure to linger outside and keep an eye on Kettleburn while he did his Care of Magical Creatures prep. The Ministry clambers for Dumbledore’s advice constantly, of course, but the thought of him being away from the castle at this particular time made me nervous. Any sign that Kettleburn was plotting anything, and I would go straight to McGonagall. And possibly get Wimmy to summon the army of house elves to rise to my aid, but only if absolutely necessary. A vengeful house elf army is no joke.

I stayed outside, watching, until it grew dark outside, glancing occasionally at the book in my hands as a cover. ( _Hex Him Where It Hurts The Witch’s Guide To Self Defense_. I didn’t want Kettleburn to think he could take me down too easily.)

My stakeout was interrupted when Snape found me on the grounds, grabbed my arm, and whirled me around to face him. “I need you.”

I probably don’t need to detail any particular mental … wanderings I might have experienced at that particular declaration.

I pushed past them -- we were basically estranged enemies at that point, after all -- and said, “What?”

“Believe me, Sinistra. It pains me more than it possibly can you. But time is of the essence. Quirrell has gone after the Stone in Dumbledore’s absence--”

“I’m pretty sure you mean Kettleburn--”

“No, Auriga, I do not mean the man that we can both see wrestling a Niffler in the distance right now. I mean Quirrell. I thought I had a satisfactory eye on him, but he had some defensive spells in place that I, foolishly, didn’t detect in time. And a quick investigation of the Gryffindor Common Room proved that Potter, Weasley, and Granger have gone after him, leaving Longbottom in a full body-bind so he couldn’t stop them.”

“What?” I said in horror.

“They don’t know what awaits them, of course. They probably think that they will find me there, gaping into the Mirror of Erised. If only they could have such good luck.”

“Well, we have to go!” I cried. “We have to help them!”

“Exactly. Ordinarily, I would do it on my own, but with three students’ lives at stake--no matter how insufferable the students--there’s no room for error.”

“You’re the only professor who could possibly find anything wrong with Hermione Granger, you absolute buffoon,” I muttered darkly as I hurried after him.

We quickly prepared ourselves to make our way through the tasks; Snape had little vials of the required potions to get through the flames from his riddle. The obstacles weren’t a surprise to us -- we’d both sat through innumerable staff meetings on the subject, even if some instructors (Snape) had been cagier than others (not Snape) on how to escape their trials -- but all the same, it felt quite spooky to actually come face-to-face with Hagrid’s three-headed dog.

Fluffy might have been quite cute under other circumstances, but not these ones. I know that Kettleburn probably would’ve set up something even more complex and difficult to defeat, but I longed for whatever his attempt would’ve been as I stared into three slobbery mouths of giant white teeth. There’s a lot to be said for nuance.

“Music subdues him,” I said, mostly for the comfort of reminding myself that our predicament had a simple solution.

“I’m aware,” Snape said. “Go ahead, then.”

“I’m not musical!”

“If you expect me to believe that your brain isn’t saturated with the lyrics of at least a dozen inane popular songs at any given moment--”

“Why me? You’re the one with the piano!”

“A family heirloom to which my mother held a strong attachment. This may shock you, Sinistra, but I haven’t had the time nor the interest to become a virtuoso.”

“Oh, of course not. Not when there’s so many slimy things in jars to look at.”

“‘Slimy things in jars’ -- typical, from a woman who hasn’t brewed a successful potion in her life--”

“Do you even _like_ Shakespeare?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said. Bringing up the time I broke into his chambers probably wasn’t great for team morale. Plus, Fluffy was really starting to snarl then, so I felt like it was best to put a pin in the bickering match. We didn’t have an instrument with us, so singing was our only option.

I stared at Snape, and I began warbling out the first song I could think of.

“ _You put a spell on my heart!  
_ _Leading me through the dark!  
_ _I can’t--_ can’t--shan’t--plant--”

The words left me. I’ve learned that while I can handle some things in a crisis, remembering Celestina Warbeck lyrics isn't one of them.

Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. 

Snape gave me a look of such profound darkness that it will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Then, he sang (!), right from the song’s very beginning:

“ _I can't believe how you've bewitched me  
_ _Never been so charmed before  
_ _Amortentia couldn't stand a chance against me  
_ _For you're the one that I adore._ ”

By now, Fluffy had a rather drowsy, pleased look on his three faces. To be fair, Snape isn’t a _terrible_ singer. He’s on key and everything. He just exudes a real air of wanting to die or perhaps kill with every note. (But I can certainly see how that would appeal to certain Knockturn Alley crowds.)

“ _I've stirred so many cauldrons in my life  
_ _But you're far and away my favorite potion  
_ _Waved me a wand or three or five  
_ _But I couldn't conjure this fine emotion_

 _You put a spell on my heart  
_ _Leading me through the dark  
_ _I can't bear us apart_  
 _Your love's left its mark  
_ _Oh, you put a spell on my heart, baby!_ ”

While he flawlessly recalled the lyrics of what I can only believe is his favorite song ever written, I snuck past him and Fluffy to the trapdoor. He did a few more rounds of the chorus as he crept after me.

I would like to state for the record that I did not mercilessly tease him about his expansive knowledge of Celestina Warbeck. It didn’t seem like the time.

I won’t be as kind in retrospect, because really, Notebook, I have a _lot_ of thoughts.

  1. Does Snape love this song so much because it talks about his favorite subject (apart from torturing me and various Gryffindors): potions?
  2. Is Celestina Warbeck a horrible songwriter, but her voice is so dazzling that none of us have noticed?
  3. By ‘wand’, does she mean … ?



Ahem. Anyway.

We made it through the Devil’s Snare and Flitwick’s charmed flying keys no problem (well, almost no problem; Snape laughed at my shoddy flying technique, which I think was extremely rude considering the circumstances), and then we got to Minerva’s chess set.

At once, I knew that we had finally reached the obstacle that would give even us trouble. Ron Weasley was lying sprawled across the floor on the far side of the giant chessboard, unconscious. Hermione Granger was kneeling at his side, shaking his shoulder and weeping as she tried to wake him.

Then she looked up and spotted us. Shock filled her face. “Professor Snape! You’re--you’re here!”

“Astute as ever, Miss Granger,” Snape deadpanned sneeringly.

Honestly. Who has time for deadpanning sneeringly under such circumstances? Severus Snape, that’s who.

We tried to run to the children, but the chess pieces were on their guard and wouldn’t allow it. Once they’d detected us, they stood at formidable attention, creating an impassable barrier between us on one side of the chamber and Hermione and Ron on the other.

“Now’s probably not the best time to tell you I’ve never learned Wizard’s Chess,” I said to Snape.

“You? Show no interest in a game that requires patience and strategic thinking? I’m shocked,” Snape answered dryly.

But as it turned out, knowing how to play chess didn’t matter in this particular situation.

That became immediately apparent when a bishop zoomed forward of its own accord (and not paying any attention to the fancy way you’re supposed to move across the squares! Even I know that’s a thing!), grabbed a rival pawn, and bit its head off.

“They aren’t supposed to do that!” Hermione cried.

“An insufferable know-it-all, as ever,” Snape said, though at least he had the decency to mutter it out of the girl’s earshot.

“ _What_ is wrong with you?!” I roared, probably in the girl’s earshot.

Snape being a big bully quickly became the least of our problems. The giant chess pieces were all angry and unhinged, out for blood. (Or whatever giant chess pieces have got instead.) Minerva had intended them to only be used once, if at all, and instead they were on their third game of the night. And they weren’t going to take it anymore.

A king piece began hurtling over to us, hungry for pawns or maybe us, like some kind of stony giant.

“Enough of this,” Snape snarled. He raised his wand and thundered, “Stupefy!”

The chess pieces retaliated by not freezing at all, and instead all going absolutely mental.

(Props to Minerva. If it had been a Stone-stealing villain facing their wrath instead of a few innocent professors and students, it would have been an extremely effective form of security.)

The black and white pieces started tearing each other to bits and throwing those bits around with great smashing sounds like the roars of giants, all the polite rules of chess abandoned. It was like a corridor brawl between Gryffindors and Slytherins on a Brobdingnalian scale.

(Now, there’s some Ravenclaw word choice for you! I’ve been doing some reading now that I haven’t got much else to do in the Hospital Wing. I’ve always meant to read Swift; he was one of Hogwarts’ most accomplished former pupils, after all, and a Ravenclaw too! Full disclosure: I’ve also devoured multiple Moira K. Mockridges.)

I ran to Ron and Hermione, flinging out shielding spells as best I could to keep them from being harmed. Snape followed my lead. For once, we were in perfect harmony.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Hermione gasped at us, her arms around Ron as if she was ready to drag him out of danger, physical logistics be damned. “You have to help Harry, he’s gone past the potion room, he’s gone to meet--well, I don’t know who now--”

Snape glanced over at the door.

“Go,” I told him.

He hesitated. It was sensible to hesitate, considering the chess pieces were slaughtering each other with reckless abandon and didn’t care at all about the poor humans caught in the crossfire.

“Go, you slimy prat!” I yelled. “I’ll be fi--”

A giant stone horse head came hurtling through the air toward us. Which really didn’t lend much credence to my “I’ll be fine” proclamation.

“PROTEGO!” I screamed, flinging the spell in Ron and Hermione’s direction to make sure they wouldn’t be crushed by the incoming knight piece.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite as vigilant about making sure _I_ wouldn’t be.

Everything went black after that.

…

I think I need a bit of a break.

More later, once I’ve rested.

And maybe had another tray of sandwiches.


	28. Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it, but it’s true – below is the final chapter of Lamentations, only 13 years late!
> 
> I have always felt quietly terrible in a corner of my soul for abandoning this fic, which I loved a whole lot and absolutely cherished the kind response to in the years that I worked on it. Life got busy and my memory of the HP series got less and less vivid as time went by. However, I always hoped that if I ever went back to HP and did a big ol’ reread, it would inspire me to also return to this story – and hooray, it actually happened! (I really wasn’t sure if that was gonna be the case. I probably would’ve estimated it was like 11% likely.) I’ve spent this year rereading the books and being an emotional mess over how profoundly they still affect me, and after a little initial trying-to-get-back-to-writing rockiness, I was really surprised to find how much Auriga still affects me too.
> 
> It was really interesting to return to this project with my current perspective (once I made it past the initial embarrassment over some of the absolutely wild hijinks that curse these pages; good golly, they are WILD). I began writing this as a young teenager back in 2003 and it was a strange and surprisingly resonant emotional experience to come back to it as someone who’s now around the same age as Auriga is in the story. I found myself thinking a lot about adulthood and womanhood and self-esteem or the lack thereof and what makes us feel like successes or failures, as well as all the complicated aspects of turning a character like Snape into, essentially, a romcom leading man, especially in the wake of knowing his full character arc in canon.
> 
> I was surprised at how easy it was to dive back into their dynamic and really enjoy it. This ending definitely doesn’t have quite the same will-they-won’t-they chaotic UST energy of the early installments, but I felt dorkily moved writing their moments together in this chapter, and I hope it’s satisfying for those of you who might be back here reading after that very, very long wait.
> 
> This will be the end of me writing long, mirroring-the-books fic about my beloved Auriga, so there won’t be similar multi-chapter fic for Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban, etc. I still write shorter fic in many fandoms pretty often, but I like to devote my writing energy for long projects toward original stuff.
> 
> These are such scary and wearying times, and whoever’s found their way to this very specific corner of the fanfic universe, I wish you well. I hope that this can bring some nostalgia and happy feelings to your day.
> 
> p.s. If you’re yearning for some great JKR-written unresolved sexual tension and shippy exquisiteness, definitely check out her Cormoran Strike mystery series. I cannot, and yet totally can, believe Joanne Rowling has destroyed my psyche with the glorious unspoken love between two fictional people YET AGAIN. As if Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger were not enough!!

**Sunday, July 7, 1992**

**7:12 PM**

**The Hospital Wing**

The thing is, I know that it wasn’t so very bad. A giant chess piece fell on me, severely concussed me, scuffed up my skin and broke most of my bones. All easy enough to fix with magic. It’s not as if I had to face You Know Who single-handedly -- and on the back my stammering Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s head, no less! I didn’t have to stop him from getting the Stone and rising up again, angrier and more terrible than ever.

All I did was protect my students, and I would do the same thing again in a heartbeat.

But I had really gotten used to a life without any real danger in it. (Or at least when there _was_ danger, it was a result of my staggering bad luck in the romance department.) The war always seemed like something that mostly happened around me, leaving me strangely untouched. The relations I lost were ones I didn’t know very well. My family lived more in the Muggle world, so it was easy to feel like I could get away from it each summer and pretend for a little while that it wasn’t happening, that the dark things going on there were unrelated.

That night, for the first time, I was really right in the heart of the war against You Know Who. And it was awful.

It makes me feel for Snape. (I know, Notebook. Don’t judge me.) After only that night, I feel like I could spend the whole summer in bed recovering. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have had years of your life lost to You Know Who. No wonder he’s so miserable.

Not that even that’s a suitable excuse for treating children like rubbish. Arsehole.

I’m still not sure what happened right after I got hurt. I have a vague feeling that Snape might have carried me; I seem to remember the low, constant sound of his voice, though I don’t know what he could’ve said. It might have been a dream, though. I’m sure he had more important things to focus on at the time than sad old newly-smushed Professor Sinistra.

Anyway, the next thing I properly remember, I was in the Hospital Wing, though it had the hazy quality of a dream too, and I couldn’t seem to move any of my limbs. (Which makes a lot of sense in retrospect.)

“How is our dear Professor Sinistra, Madam Pomfrey?” asked Dumbledore.

“She’s had a rough night, Albus, there’s no denying that, but she’ll be right as rain. I’ll fix the scrapes and cuts in a pinch. The broken bones are no challenge, though I seldom see so many all at once. But with blows to the head, one has to be a little more careful. Brains aren’t to be trifled with--”

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore.

“Just _fix her_ ,” Snape growled from the chair beside my bed. And then, clipped but courteous: “Please.”

I felt a strange peace at the sound of his voice (the concussion, no doubt), and drifted into unconsciousness again.

When I woke up the next time, it was late morning and the room was full of sunlight. I was more alert, and could move my arms and legs just fine, though they felt a little stiff. Harry Potter slept in another bed at the end of the wing. Snape was standing there, watching him with a look that was hard to decipher, but wasn’t homicidal fury for once.

I noticed there was an empty chair turned toward my bed, and a folded blanket on the floor beside it, like whoever had been sitting there had been offered some warmth (by Poppy, no doubt) and refused.

“Severus?” I said.

He turned to me. “You’re awake.”

“I am.”

“And your bones are fully formed and all in the right place, I trust?”

“Was that up for debate?” I asked, alarmed. (I hadn’t quite gotten the sense of what had happened yet.)

“It was.”

“Sweet stars.”

“An insipid expression,” Snape said, walking over, “but I suppose I agree with the sentiment.”

Reality began rushing back to me. “What happened to Harry? Did Quirrell succeed? Was he working with You Know Who--?”

“Harry defeated Quirrell. Or, to be more precise, he defeated the Dark Lord; Quirrell perished in the process. Albus showed up mere seconds after you were knocked out, but by the time we got to the Mirror, Potter had no need of our assistance.”

“How did Quirrell … perish?”

That’s when he explained the bit about You Know Who living on Quirrell’s head. He was kind enough to pass me the bedpan just in time for me to throw up in it.

“I must go,” he said once he’d caught me up to speed. “There’s still some marking to do before the end of the term. I simply wanted to check and see that you and Potter were recovering from your recent foolhardy adventures.”

I nodded, struck dumb by Snape being very nearly cordial.

As he made to go, something hurtled me back in time to our early years at Hogwarts, the only time I’d ever seen him show real flashes of happiness. It made me say, “Lily Evans would have been grateful for all you’ve done to keep him safe.”

I’m not sure why I said ‘Evans’ and not ‘Potter.’ It’s the way I always remember her. She was Evans for so much longer.

At her name, Snape froze in the doorway.

“I know you were friends once,” I added.

“Once,” Snape agreed after a long pause. He turned to go, and I figured I’d best let him. I was already on thin ice, daring to mention that once upon a time, before he grew old enough to know better, he’d cared about another human being.

I looked over to examine my bedside table and discovered you sitting there. Snape and the others had recovered you after going through Quirrell’s chambers and breaking the various little curses he’d set around his room to remain undetectable.

But before I could go wild with joy, Snape kept talking.

“Friends have never been a priority of mine.” He spoke without facing me. His hand rested on the ajar door, like it was poised to push it open of its own accord and pull all of him away if he said too much. “Especially in the wake of accepting my post here, when I no longer harbored any youthful longings for company, I never entertained the idea. While some consider such bonds essential to a full life, I’ve never been among them. But in recent years, I’ve been … surprised. You are -- though I shudder to say it -- the closest thing I have.” Finally, he turned and looked at me. “I’m glad you survived.”

“Thank you,” I said. For once, I couldn’t think of anything more verbose. I'm ashamed to admit it, Notebook, but I had forgotten your existence completely. “You too.”

His mouth twitched, but in a way that looked quite unlike his usual twitches. I realized after a moment that it was because -- and I know this sounds crazy, Notebook, but I swear it -- he was trying not to smile. Or maybe smiling the best he could.

Either way, something about it made me feel like I’d accidentally eaten a hundred Fizzing Whizzbees and would start hovering out of my bed at any moment.

I panicked. “Well, you’re not the _closest_ thing I have; Victoria’s my best friend, and a lot of the faculty and I are quite chummy. I’ve had many more pleasant conversations with Hagrid, and Flitwick--”

Snape scowled. “I don’t doubt it.”

“But sure,” I finished nonchalantly, “I suppose I’d count you as a friend.”

“How touching. Alas, I cannot reciprocate. You’ll understand, I’m sure. Our temperaments are hardly complementary. Friendship would be impossible.”

“What?” I frowned at him. “You just said--”

Snape held up a finger. “I said you were the closest thing I had. There’s a difference.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpanned, wishing I could snap that know-it-all finger off. “Aren’t you clever?”

“Indeed. I’ve been known to put a certain Ravenclaw to shame.”

Then he turned and departed, all triumphant.

“You wish!” I shouted after him. It was all I could do. I hadn’t learned ‘Brobdignalian’ yet, which was probably for the best; yelling it randomly probably wouldn’t have made my case, even though it’s got such a respectable number of syllables and unlikely letters.

Ye gods, he’s infuriating.

… I cannot believe Severus Snape and I are (the closest thing to) friends. That must be why he brought me coffee this morning. It’s the sort of thing that (the closest thing to) friends do. How will I ever adjust to this bizarre new reality?

**11:50 PM**

Victoria dropped by for a late night chat; she wasn’t allowed to stay long, since Poppy was extremely displeased by our tendency to “chatter like first-years.” It was wonderful to see her, though, and even better to find out that apparently -- oh, I’m grinning at the thought -- _Snape_ has been taking care of Herman the iguana.

I haven’t been able to stop smiling since.

From the hysterical amusement that comes from trying to imagine Snape taking care of anything, that is. Not because I think it’s strangely cute or anything.

Cute? Snape? Please. Even in the darkest, most sleep-deprived fathoms of my brain and heart, I never would’ve been bonkers enough to put the concepts ‘Snape’ and ‘cute’ together.

I wonder if he’s made him a little nest or something.

Hee!

**Monday, June 8, 1992**

**1:30 AM**

**Hospital Wing**

Albus just dropped in to check on Harry -- he’s been doing it a few times every day, and says the boy’s due to wake up any time now -- and sat to chat with me (and dip into the glorious sticky toffee pudding Wimmy brought me for a midnight snack). He had already thanked me for protecting our students, so it surprised me that he wanted to talk about anything else. We’ve never been especially chatty, me and Albus, even though he’s always been pleasant to me. I always got the sense he had much more important things to do than check in with the dotty Astronomy professor.

“You are, I think,” he said, waving the pudding-covered fork he’d conjured out of thin air, “an uncommonly patient person, Auriga.”

“Me?” I said in surprise. “Oh, I don’t think so; you should see me in line at Flourish & Blotts for a new Gilderoy Lockhart--”

“There are two people in the world who haven’t given up on Severus Snape. And I believe we are both here, delighting in this extraordinary pudding.”

I wasn’t sure what to say about that, so I shoved more pudding into my mouth instead.

“He was the one who thought to repair your glasses when we got to the Hospital Wing,” Dumbledore said. “I confess, my mind was elsewhere. And he insisted that Poppy provide you with the very best care as quickly as possible. He was so insistent that she came very near pushing him out that window.”

“Well,” I grumbled, feeling a new wave of appreciation for my perfect lenses; I hadn’t thought to wonder about them either, “that sounds not-entirely-prattish of him. For once.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Thank you for your willingness to give the man more chances than he, perhaps, seems to deserve. I suspect it has the potential to do us all more good than we know. And after all, it’s a most enlivening hobby, to have a nemesis.”

“Is it?”

“Ah, yes. Nothing keeps one’s wits quite so vibrant. And a nemesis with whom you are, ultimately, on the same side? Now, that is a blessing indeed.” He seemed wistful, I suspect because his pudding was almost gone. “Quite like this gustatory masterpiece. Besotting a house-elf certainly has its advantages!”

So, yes. Now I get to live with the knowledge that Albus Dumbledore knows my house elf is in love with me. Spec-bloody-tacular.

Then again, what doesn’t Dumbledore know?

And he seems to think that Snape has some real worth.

Which makes me feel quite validated, in a way.

**Monday, June 8, 1992**

**2:00 PM**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Home, sweet home!

My time in the Hospital Wing was wonderful, of course, but it’s quite nice not to have Poppy’s watchful eye on me. Now I can drink all the coffee I want!

Though she might be right about cutting back a bit. I do get jumpy and sleep-deprived, don’t I?

Excellent news: Harry Potter woke up today. There’s a definite air of cheer that’s pervaded the entire castle because of it. (Well, maybe it hasn’t reached the dungeons, but who cares about those spoilsports?) He’s certainly had a legion of eager well-wishers waiting for it to happen. Honestly, it’s a relief to be out of the Hospital Wing and finally get to totally shake the sense that my presence there was somehow stealing an eleven-year-old’s thunder.

Hermione and Ron must be beside themselves with joy; they checked up on him every day, though they were kind enough to stop by my bed and thank me too. They even left me a card. Inside it, Hermione had written a long, thoughtful note that I cannot possibly transcribe, or even summarize, lest I cry all over you, Notebook, and leave you irreparably damaged. Briefly: she’s the kind of student that makes this whole teaching lark worth it. In the bit of space left over, Ron wrote in tiny handwriting: _Thanks loads for saving us, Professor Sinistra. Hermione says you were brilliant. Sorry for falling asleep in class that one time. -Ron_

Which, I guess, has some charm in its own way.

(Boys.)

My bedroom quarters are looking extra cheerful--absolutely drowning in flowers! I thought at first that Wimmy had just gone overboard (or maybe just reasonable-board; I did break nearly all my bones, let’s remember), but it turns out they’ve all been sent to me from friends and family and kind acquaintances near and far. Even Destiny du Maurier came out of retirement to send me some dahlias!

I had a wonderful time looking through all my flowers. Back behind all the bouquets of bright blooms (ugh; there’s some du Maurier phrasing for you), I discovered a pale green, pointy-looking succulent in a little clay pot. The card didn’t say anything about wishing me a speedy recovery; it just had terse instructions on keeping the leaves dry and not over-watering. If I hadn’t recognized the handwriting, I would’ve worried it might have been some kind of dark object planted in my room for nefarious purposes.

As it is, well. I’m going to be careful to keep the leaves dry and not over-water it.

In other news, I’ve had a Floo chat with my parents in the fireplace; to my surprise, they’re in Hogsmeade, alongside Lyra! I guess they’ve been in absolute fits of worry over me ever since Minerva told Mum what happened; Dad drove them to Scotland and randomly wandered around the highlands, shouting “SHOW YOURSELF, HOGWARTS!” no matter how many times Mum told him Hogwarts can’t be found by Muggles. Apparently, he got some very confused looks from passersby. Especially passersby with hogs. (But there can’t have been too many of those, right? Then again: Scotland.)

They’re all staying in Hogsmeade for a few days, and after the End-of-Year Feast I’ll be popping down to join them and show them that I can, indeed, still walk and talk and everything.

If all it takes to impress my mother is getting my entire body more or less ground into fine powder in a You Know Who-adjacent crisis and then living to tell the tale, well, I suppose I’ll take it.

I’m definitely making them take me to Madam Puddifoot’s. Their treat!

**Monday, June 8, 1992**

**9:45 PM**

**Bedroom Quarters**

The End-of-Year Feast has come and gone, Notebook! Gryffindor managed a glorious surprise victory over Slytherin thanks to the heroics of Harry, Hermione, Ron, and dear Neville Longbottom. Watching the Great Hall’s decor go from green and silver to red and gold was more restorative than anything Poppy could provide in the hospital wing. (Er, emotionally, at least. To be fair, it probably couldn’t have mended my bones. But my soul-bones are feeling some extra fortitude!) You should’ve seen the expression on Snape’s face. He was cheerier singing Celestina Warbeck for his life at a three-headed dog.

I couldn’t help thinking, as I stood with my fellow teachers at the head table while the Great Hall filled with cheering, that my life is quite lovely after all. Yes, I’m terrifyingly prone to romantic disasters so demented that even Moira K. Mockridge wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. But I work in the most wonderful place on Earth (not that I’ve seen much of Earth, but what could possibly beat Hogwarts?), and I get to do a small part in shaping these kids into the extraordinary people they become. Most of my colleagues are pretty excellent company, in their own bizarre ways. And I have my very own dungeon-dwelling nemesis, which means that life can never get _too_ boring.

When I flip back through you, Notebook, I realize that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about all the ways in which I’m not good enough. But now that I’ve nearly died, I don’t so much mind that my hair is unruly (after all, so is Hermione Granger’s; maybe we’ll start a trend. Smart girl chic!), or that my list of past boyfriends is short and sad, or that my social skills aren’t precisely astounding. I try my best to be good to people, and I can be brave when it counts, and I’d do anything to protect our students and our school. Even though I’ve taught here for years, when I was standing at the head of the Great Hall with my colleagues today, it felt for the first time like I was really a Hogwarts professor.

Wouldn’t you know, Notebook: it was a good feeling.

Maybe this will mark my transformation into the new Auriga Sinistra: wiser, calmer, altogether more dignified. A grown woman of thirty-two next week (grown women always accept their age with dignity; Poppy Pomfrey and I had some very inspirational conversations about the complexities of womanhood while I was recovering). A woman worthy of the illustrious position of Hogwarts professor!

But I wouldn’t hate it if my hair calmed down just a bit.

**Thursday, June 11, 1992**

**8:30 AM**

**Bed Chambers**

I just opened my door to find Snape standing there.

Now, don’t get excited, Notebook. We’re mature now, remember, and aren’t going to become absolute swooning freaks over things like Snape visiting my bedroom quarters. He wasn’t there for any sort of reason Victoria would get excited about.

On the contrary. He was holding a cage containing a certain recently-ownerless iguana.

“It’s your turn,” he said shortly, holding the cage out to me.

“Excuse me?” I sputtered.

“I have watched over the creature while you were recovering. Now that you’re once again in the bloom of health--” He spared a judgmental look at my star-patterned pyjamas; apparently not judging me while I was in the Hospital Wing was too much for him, “--it’s your turn to take responsibility for him.”

“Him?”

“It.”

“Oh, really?” I crossed my arms. “How do you figure?”

“It is, of course, Potter’s fault that Slatero Quirrell is dead and therefore unavailable for iguana care. But since people are so reluctant to blame children for the repercussions of their actions--”

“By ‘actions,’ do you mean vanquishing You Know Who single-handedly? Again?”

“--I suppose we were the two adults in the closest proximity to that particular disaster. Therefore, the burden of caring for the beast falls to us in equal measure.”

“I can’t just devote all my time to watching an orphaned iguana, Snape. I’m a busy and important person.”

“Very well. We’ll split the time. For the first half of the week, he’ll reside in the dungeons with me. For the other, he’ll come up here with you. Does that suit your -- forgive the choice of phrase -- backbreaking schedule?”

I couldn’t find any reason to protest, and it felt right about on schedule for him to start making fun of my recently demolished skeleton, so I just reached out and took the cage.

“Are we co-parenting an iguana?” I asked him, peering in at Herman.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Snape sneered. “And don’t overfeed him. No matter how beseechingly he stares at you.”

“But what about the … mistaking my arm … for a female iguana problem?” I asked delicately.

Snape grimaced. “There are simple spells to curb such behaviors. He shouldn’t trouble you in that area anymore.”

“Oh. Um, thanks.” I was quite sincerely touched that he’d thought of it. I suppose it is the '90s. Chivalry takes odd shapes these days, but it can still be found if you keep an eye out for it.

“If you overfeed him,” Snape went on, “or talk to him in any kind of condescending babble worthy of a particularly dull infant, I assure you, Auriga, I will know, and I won’t be pleased.”

“Oh, I’m so scared!” I jeered.

I was, a little, but I hardly wanted him to know that.

“Charming as ever,” he said. “Goodbye.”

He turned and began to walk away, and something about the sight of his retreating figure stopped me. It’s just that he looked so normal, so Snape, storming off because I’d said something annoying. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d sat at my bedside in the Hospital Wing, or that he’d fixed my glasses.

“Wait,” I called, setting Herman’s cage on the floor. “Severus.”

He turned.

I hurried to meet him.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” I said in a rush. “I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I know you were there.”

His scowl seemed a tad softer than usual. “Of course I was there. Contrary to what everyone around here thinks, I’m not entirely without a soul.”

“I know you’re not,” I said, meaning it.

And then, without at all planning to, I kissed his cheek.

It will be hard to forget the look on his face when I did it. It was like something at the very center of him melted, just briefly, and he was as human and hungry for love as the rest of us. It made me want to kiss him again, but it made me want to hold him too. I’ve never quite felt that way looking at him before. Like he could use a hug as much as I could, or maybe even more.

Of course, I didn’t do either of those things.

“I’ve, um, got an iguana to watch,” I said instead, stepping away.

“No overfeeding, Sinistra,” Snape said sternly, and then kept on walking away. His gait was slightly faster than usual, like he couldn’t wait to get away from me.

Or maybe like he didn’t know how to be around me anymore.

Either way, I’m relieved that he’s out of my orbit.

But a little glad to know we’re both under the same roof.

Herman’s settled in quite nicely here. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Especially since he doesn’t seem to be feeling very, you know. Lusty lizard.

The way I see it, our future as a human/iguana team is golden. I’m saving him from not only the dreariness of life as a pet to a duplicitous villain with You Know Who on their cranium, but the even-worse dreariness of living down in the dungeons with Snape. What could possibly go wrong?

**9:14 AM**

Oh, damn it! Are iguanas supposed to eat flowers??

I’m going to sprint to the library and see if I can find a book on iguana care, just in case. They should invent something that you can consult immediately that gives you answers to any question you can possibly think of, no matter how specific and strange. Honestly. Why hasn’t magic gotten there yet?

**10:52 AM**

All right. I’ve got _Iguana Care For The Cautious Novice_ (a book title that seems unsettlingly on the nose), and I’m definitely not going to mess up again.

**11:07 AM**

Snape wasn’t joking about those beseeching eyes. I’m pretty sure that this iguana is starving to death. Isn’t it just like Severus Snape to starve a poor, innocent, recently orphaned iguana who’s just lost his two fathers?

**11:13 AM**

Oh, one extra lettuce leaf from his food supply won’t hurt.

It’s not as if you can gain weight from _lettuce!_

**Sunday, June 14, 1992**

**5:25 PM**

**Dungeons (Especially ominous today.)**

I’m waiting for Snape to return to the dungeons for our first official iguana swap, and I have to admit it: Herman is plumper than he was at the start of the week.

**5:28 PM**

Snape won’t notice. Even _he_ must be cheered enough by the summer holidays and sunshine that he won’t get too worked up over a little thing like a slightly rounder iguana.

**6:16 PM**

**Bedroom Quarters**

Never raise an iguana with your nemesis, Notebook. I’ll give you that handy piece of advice right now. It will be a minor miracle if I ever see that barely-rotund (but very happy, and I think that’s important!) iguana ever again in my life.

**Tuesday, June 16, 1992 (Yay!)**

**4:00 PM**

**The Exquisitely Sunny Hogwarts Grounds**

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me! I’ve had some excellent festivities already today; Victoria planned a surprise party for me in the Great Hall, _and_ surprised me with a trip to Paris in July! We’re going to stay at her aunt’s chic flat and eat all of the bread and cheese we possibly can. (And, I suppose, see some sights, if it comes to that.) Everyone was really wonderful. Minerva apologized again for her chess pieces going berserk at me and got me a gift certificate to Flourish & Blotts, and Sybill told me her Inner Eye had had new revelations and I may actually be in store for a long and happy life, albeit a romantically dicey one rife with anguished Byronic heroes. (Really? WHERE? I should’ve asked her to point me in the right direction. I have always had a pesky weak spot for Mr. Rochester. Though knowing my luck, he would probably put me in the attic.) Honestly, at this point, I’ll take that upgraded fortune happily. I’m going to Paris to eat bread and cheese. Nothing can get me down.

Now that the party’s over, I’m spending the afternoon enjoying Gilderoy Lockhart’s newest, _Magical Me_ , next to the lake in the sunshine while Herman explores the grounds nearby. The book hasn’t even been released yet, but Albus somehow snagged me an advance copy. Working for the greatest wizard of our age most definitely has its advantages!

Before you ask: no, Snape didn’t get me a present, but Herman was returned to my quarters _and_ mysteriously wearing a tiny birthday hat earlier. It’s hard to imagine a better gift than that. He looks quite dashing exploring the grass in his little cone hat; it’s a shame he doesn’t have a lady iguana to impress!

(Note to self: talk to Snape about co-parenting second iguana?)

(Second note to self: be careful not to actually use the term “co-parenting.” He wasn’t wild about it last time.)

(Third note to self: why does Snape have a supply of readily available tiny birthday hats?)

I am officially thirty-two, Notebook, and I think I’m relieved about it. I’ve always liked even numbers better. An even number has to mean a more even year. Thirty-one was doomed to be chaos. But thirty-two? It’s hard to imagine a number with more dignity and poise! Maybe forty-eight, but that’s a way off yet.

And so what if I don’t have a boyfriend? My points from last week’s entry still stand. I have some fantastic colleagues who threw me a fun birthday celebration instead of leaving right away for their holidays, and I have an amazing job at the most magnificent school of magic in the world. (Well, all right, maybe I always daydreamed of going to Beauxbatons when I was little, but I’ve wised up since. Pastel colors so aren’t my style, and I’ve never gotten the hang of French. I suppose I ought to try to brush up on that before next month.) I teach some wonderful, maddening, outstanding children--some of whom are brave enough to try to save the world at age eleven. (Others try to drop off toilet seats to the Hospital Wing, but there’s no denying that Fred and George Weasley know how to liven up a grim situation.) I had a nice Floo check-in with Mum and Dad and Lyra in the fireplace earlier, and was glad to see them even though we just spent time together less than a week ago. (Talk about a miracle.) Wimmy and his fellow house elves made me the most magnificent birthday cake you could possibly imagine, with the icing done up to look like a starry night sky, _and_ they performed a choreographed version of some new pop song called “I’m Too Sexy.” I have to admit, Notebook, it was quite catchy. It’s a hit in the Muggle world, but I think the songwriters can’t be Muggles. There must be wizardry at work there. There’s no explaining how a song with such objectively terrible lyrics is so good, otherwise. It's not like Celestina Warbeck is singing it. (I bet "I'm Too Sexy" would even get “Spell On My Heart” out of Snape’s head. Perhaps I should buy him a tape deck …)

And hey, speaking of sexy: if the right man comes along, well, I’ll be perfectly thrilled to meet him. But I’m starting to wonder if maybe the right man isn’t exactly like I’ve always imagined him. Sure, it would be great to have some Byronic hero or -- even better -- Gilderoy Lockhart-style heartthrob waltz into my world out of nowhere and dazzle me, like Algernon did, but I don’t know if I’m entirely in the mood for that sort of romance anymore. I’m a bit too messy for that. I think I’d like somebody who’s a bit messy, too. Someone else who’s got some growing to do, so that we could do it together.

~~Possibly while being nemeses and co-parenting an iguana.~~

You know, I think being responsible for a living being aside from myself has really been good for me, Notebook. I can tell that I’ve grown, and matured, and learned restraint and calm.

Professor Auriga J. Sinistra: thirty-two and _finally_ self-actualized.

Dreamy, life-fixing boyfriend not required.

**Friday, June 19, 1992**

**10:56 AM**

**Teacher's Lounge**

YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHO’S GOING TO BE TEACHING DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS NEXT YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**11:00 AM**

Dear “Notebook,”  
Forgive my intrusion. Your usual writer scribbled something in you with her hands shaking like they’d been struck by a particularly sinister jazz hands jinx, then spilled her coffee all over the staffroom table. She is currently apologizing profusely to Professor McGonagall for the current state of the latter’s robes; I chose to take the opportunity to see what scribblings had merited such a dramatic reaction after the ordinary business of our last staff meeting of the term.

First, let me congratulate you on your considerable page count since last we met. Who knew that such an unexceptional life could, regardless, produce a volume that puts Hogwarts: A History to shame?

Second, please do your best to contain all of Professor Sinistra’s inane ramblings about a certain addition to the faculty for the upcoming school year, so that we the people around her do not have to bear witness to such adolescent hysteria and unadulterated starry-eyed twittery. For some reason I cannot begin to fathom, she seems to have deemed me her worthiest conversation partner. You, better than anyone, must understand how troubling that is.

Regards,  
S. Snape

**11:11 AM**

BASTARD.

_The End_


End file.
